


As Sunlight Drinketh Dew

by Kate_Lear



Series: Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes [1]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, First Meetings, First Time, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-03 06:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 61,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10961634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear
Summary: Set in and around the events of series 1.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Caveat lector: this story is going to be posted in parts; the whole thing is written, but still requires a bit of editing and polishing before being ready to release into the wild. This is the first of a total 5-6 chapters - I anticipate posting a new chapter approximately once a week (RL-permitting!).
> 
> Not beta-read, so please let me know if you see any errors or typos.
> 
> Also I should add that my knowledge of pathology as a profession - and also Classics, for that matter - is based solely on what I can glean from the TV series and Google. So if you spot any egregious mistakes then I'd love to hear from you, either in the comments here or via PM at my LJ account: http://kate-lear.livejournal.com

Maximilian Theodore Siegfried DeBryn – he often thought his parents had nurtured high ambitions for him – was no stranger to self-denial. He had been eleven when the war ended, and the rationing had continued for nine years afterwards. He was familiar with having to tighten his belt, make do and mend, go without. Even now he would occasionally walk into a shop and be overwhelmed at the sheer quantity and variety of food available, almost obscene in its lavish spread.

Anyone meeting him now might find it hard to credit, but DeBryn had been a skinny child. He was the youngest of a large family, where there often hadn’t been enough to go around. It had been late in life before DeBryn encountered the notion of rich food that was unrationed and available whenever one desired, and the concept had proved a dangerous one.

As he grew older, and realised he wasn’t like the other boys at his school – he had no interest in the cleavage of Mary Scott who worked behind the counter in the local Post Office, but was hopelessly distracted by the downy hair on the nape of Mark Jenkins – it came as no great hardship. Like chocolate, and butter, and sweets, this was just one more thing he couldn’t have.

At that point it had hardly seemed to matter; there were so many other more important things. Like balancing with his schoolwork with the demands of his paper round. Providing support to his mother, newly widowed after the battle of Arras. And later, studying first for entrance examinations to medical school and then following the demands of the course, he grew accustomed to falling into bed in the small hours, his head crammed with Latin terms and metabolic processes, without the time or space for the luxury of desire.

For all that, just occasionally, there would be... something. As a teenager: a rough-and-tumble, mock-wrestling bout with a friend that – once or twice – turned into more. Or later, at university, a chap in one of his classes who returned DeBryn’s interested glances, and studying together in their rooms or in secluded corners of the library stacks would be abandoned in favour of a hurried moment together, snatched from their daily lives.

It was never slow, never luxurious, never fulfilling. Such encounters were like crusts of bread to a starving man: just enough to tease, nowhere near enough to satisfy. But DeBryn refused to dwell on it. After all, what could he do? He hadn’t so many other options.

And so he watched his brothers and his acquaintances court and eventually, one by one, marry. He attended their weddings; at first to be pointedly introduced to a succession of arch young women and then, as the years passed, to be ruefully presented as ‘a confirmed bachelor’. As though everyone didn’t know exactly what _that_ meant.

In due course he qualified – towards the top of his year – and went into pathology. It wasn’t the glamorous surgeon’s role he had envisaged – albeit briefly – but it was steady painstaking work and not only was he was good at it, he enjoyed it. After all, the dead were just as needful of care as the living. More, in some cases. And the first time a policeman stopped by to tell him they had caught the killer mostly on evidence gained during post-mortem, DeBryn had sank into a chair, astonished at his own fierce curl of pride.

His family, of course, knew exactly why he had chosen that speciality. They none of them spoke about that summer, towards the end of the war. They didn’t need to, not when the memory sat with them all, in their separate ways, its painful edges blunted only a little by the passage of time.

DeBryn rose in his field; he would never rise high enough – and had chosen the wrong field – to win national renown, but no matter. He moved to Glenfield, an easy drive from Leicester Royal Infirmary, and began to develop a reputation for steady, reliable work. He took up fishing. He bought a record player and began to educate himself about music, and he learned to cook. He had a comfortable life, with his books and his fishing, and it was enough. Or so he told himself, when the armchair on the other side of his fireplace seemed to mock him with its emptiness, and when he woke in the small hours aching with hunger for a warm body next to him.

After a few years a position came vacant at Cowley General Hospital, in Oxford. Seduced by the thought of dreaming spires, of Auden and Eliot and Housman, DeBryn applied for the job and got it.

It was all he hoped it would be. The sun-warmed stones, the students rushing about with scarves trailing and arms full of books, the centuries-old beauty of the place. Even the less salubrious places that his work took him – the run-down quarters of the city, the places along the river where bodies washed up – served only as a reminder: _Et in arcadia ego_.

The one thing DeBryn hadn’t expected, or at least not consciously allowed himself to imagine, was the undercurrent of homosexuality, and it became quickly apparent that living in a city like Oxford was in no way comparable with his previous posting.

It was nebulous, nothing he could put his finger on: like a piece of music on the edge of hearing, or a faint scent on the breeze, there and gone in an instant. It was in the tilt of a young man’s head as he and his companion strolled around the Ashmolean, thinking themselves unseen as the backs of their hands brushed, while DeBryn watched their reflections in a glass display case, half-mad with envy. It was in the weight of a lad’s gaze as he watched his companion punt them both upriver, and in pairs strolling arm in arm through quads. At the concerts that Oxford supplied so plentifully, scattered through the city’s churches and colleges like gems dropped carelessly, DeBryn would see them, and he grew adept at sensing a fellow’s inclinations from a trick of speaking, the way he held a cigarette, the slope of a chap’s shoulders as he leaned in towards his friend.

DeBryn had read enough of the Greek philosophers to have a fair idea of what the Classics professors and their students were likely to get up to, and despite not being part of their circle – he was most emphatically town, not gown – he might have been invited into it if he looked the right sort. If he had been tall and lithe, like the examples of male beauty he saw strolling around the city, turning heads as they passed.

But DeBryn was under no illusions about his body: beauty and youth opened doors that remained firmly shut to plump and nearly middle-aged, and so DeBryn struck up conversations with such men as best he could – during concert intervals, and in the few pubs he frequented – and watched them look past him, their gazes sliding off him even as he looked and looked and _wanted_.

It was enough to drive a fellow mad. DeBryn was aware – all too sharply aware, on occasion – that man was still just an animal, for all his books and poetry and achievements, and had an animal’s need for warmth and intimacy. Man could not live on Tennyson alone.

And so when he overheard the conversation between two young men – who really ought to have known better than to speak of such things in the glasshouse in the botanic gardens, where an eavesdropper could be only feet away but entirely masked by greenery – about a certain men’s public convenience out at Godstow, and who one might encounter there, DeBryn barely hesitated.

It was insanity, of course. If he were caught by a patrolling policeman, or even merely recognised by a fellow visitor, it would be the end of his job, his career. And yet he lay in bed that night, closing his eyes and allowing himself vague fantasies of kisses, and hands on his skin that weren’t his own, until he was restless with longing.

The first time he went, he almost turned back half a dozen times. He had tucked a packet of French letters and a tube of lubricant in his jacket pocket; thanks to his training he knew far too much about various diseases for comfort. He parked down the darkest lane he could find, half a mile from the site, terrified the car would be recognised, and waited outside the back of the small brick building for fully ten minutes working up the courage to enter. When he found it empty, disappointment warred with relief in his chest.

It wasn’t a place to linger. The tiles had perhaps, once upon a time, been white, but were now streaked and stained, and the artificial scent of cleaner couldn’t fully mask the odours of stale urine and damp. DeBryn wrinkled his nose fastidiously. Ten minutes, he would give himself ten minutes of this madness before leaving.

With two minutes to go, a dark-haired man walked in and DeBryn’s breath caught in his chest, his stomach executing a nervous roll. Was this it? Dear God, what if the chap had honestly stopped off to relieve himself on his journey, DeBryn couldn’t just approach him, it was utterly unthinkable–

But the man looked DeBryn up and down, dark eyes flickering, raised his eyebrows, and jerked his head toward one of the toilet stalls.

As easy as that.

Afterwards DeBryn returned to his car, trembling with fading adrenaline and the aftermath of orgasm, and when he reached it he sank into the driver’s seat to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. The touch of the man’s hands seemed to linger ghost-like on his skin; they had been hardened from labour but not unkind, stroking down DeBryn’s sides and across his belly like someone gentling a skittish horse, and DeBryn had wondered absurdly, irrelevantly, what the man did for a living. And then the fellow had reached DeBryn’s opened trousers and dipped his hand below the waistband, and...

DeBryn sat back, resting his head against the seat with a sigh as the lingering memory of climax twined with faint threads of fresh arousal. It was done. He waited five more minutes for his pulse to calm before driving home, the maddening itch under his skin sated. Temporarily, at least.

\----------

DeBryn lasted far longer than he thought he would, but eventually he returned. There had never really been any doubt that he would, not since he learned of the place’s existence.

The second visit was a different chap: blond and nervous, who got down on his knees and used his mouth until DeBryn had to bite down on his knuckles to silence himself when he finished. The third time was an older man, with a wedding ring and shame in his eyes, who pushed a bottle of oil into DeBryn’s hands before pointedly turning his back and opening his trousers. It was DeBryn’s first attempt at that particular act and he was unprepared for the physical sensation, the silky heat and tightness of it. The chap cursed sharply when he came, and DeBryn had to press his mouth hard against the fellow’s shoulder to contain his own cry.

Each time DeBryn went he swore to himself it would be his last trip. With each visit he increased the chance of meeting someone he knew, of watching his whole life, the life he had built for himself, go up in smoke. Yet sooner or later the hunger would return, the gnawing ache that made him long to feel hands on his skin, and to caress a body that wasn’t his own, to hear another man’s voice break in pleasure, and so – furtively, terrified, ashamed of his own weakness – he went.

DeBryn had lost count of his visits – ten? Twelve? – by the evening he walked in and found a young man already waiting. He wheeled quickly to face DeBryn as he entered, looking for all the world like a wild creature brought to bay, and DeBryn paused for a moment, knocked breathless. Because this chap didn’t look at all like the usual sort who came here.

He was thin, his eyes wide and wary in his narrow face, his cheap coat hanging off his lanky frame. He looked worn, as though he spent his life living on scraps without ever getting quite enough food or warmth or affection, save for that lush mouth that spoke of sensuality and pleasure. It gave his face an austere, almost classical, beauty, with that oddly square chin to lend it character and redeem it from the bland perfection of a statue or a painting.

The obvious intelligence in his eyes, and the lick of auburn hair falling over his forehead, made him look gown, not town, and for a wild moment DeBryn wondered if he had genuinely arrived to make use of the facilities in their more conventional sense.

Yet he wasn’t using the stalls, nor the urinals; instead he was standing in the middle of the floor. Waiting. And there was no hesitation as he looked DeBryn up and down before tilting his head silently towards one of the stalls.

DeBryn didn’t wait to be invited twice. He had barely stepped inside before the man was crowding in after him, closing the flimsy door firmly behind them.

The cubicle doors were painted a pale green; occasionally, while waiting for his evening’s company, DeBryn had thought they looked unchanged since the block was built. But this evening he hardly noticed them, all his attention was focussed on the young man standing in front of him, his expression at once nervous and determined.

There was an etiquette to these encounters. DeBryn hadn’t thought so at first, but he had gradually picked it up: youth and beauty were to be adored, given pleasure as their due. There was perhaps more in common with ancient Greek practices than most of the block’s habitual clientele would think and, more pertinently, it meant courtesy dictated that DeBryn allow this fellow to steer him towards what he wanted.

It was no hardship: the chap was easily the most attractive man DeBryn had ever met. Tall and lean, with that solemn mouth that looked as though its owner didn’t smile nearly often enough, and those freckles dusted across his cheekbones. His eyes were a curious pale blue, and as they tracked over his face DeBryn had the unnerving thought that they could read his every thought printed on his forehead.

A full minute passed in perfect silence, as the man stared at DeBryn, and DeBryn returned his gaze. Not just freckles, but a sharp jaw line and high cheekbones that DeBryn wanted to trace with his fingertips, and his attention kept returning – helplessly – to those enormous blue eyes.

There was a faint frown between the chap’s eyebrows now, with the smallest hint of worry or unhappiness in those eyes. It was that as much as the lack of guidance that made DeBryn break one of his own personal rules – absolute silence – and murmur, encouraging: ‘We can do anything you want.’

He reached out, resting a hand lightly on the chap’s forearm. Was he new at this? He had certainly acted like someone who knew what he was doing when he ordered DeBryn in here with that peremptory tilt of his head, yet now he seemed unsure.

The real question, if he was new at this, was what on earth he was doing out here, experimenting in a damp toilet block stinking of piss when the delicate beauty of his face was enough to win him invitations to the bedroom of his choice among Oxford’s more cultured queer set. This fellow belonged on the arm of one of those elegant, languid young men DeBryn watched covetously at concerts and galleries. Not here.

‘Anything I want.’ The man’s voice was low, pleasant. Well-spoken but with just the slightest edge of a northern accent, presumably one he had tried hard to rid himself of–

And before DeBryn could analyse it any further, the man leaned forward and pressed his mouth to DeBryn’s.

He was tall, DeBryn thought frantically. He had often wished himself a few inches taller but never more so than now, because he had to crane his neck back to a ridiculous degree just to kiss the fellow. But the man didn’t seem to mind; he was leaning down, his long spine curling over, and DeBryn cupped his jaw, stroking his thumb along one of those exquisite cheekbones.

That mouth was made for kisses. And the man was good at it too; DeBryn had been kissed by men who thought the whole idea was to get their tongue as far inside the other chap’s mouth as possible. But this fellow was gentle, almost shy. He kissed with soft shallow touches, barely dipping inside DeBryn’s mouth until DeBryn slid his hand to the man’s nape and coaxed his mouth open further, brushing his tongue briefly against the inside of his lip.

A soft inhalation, and the man pressed closer, kissing hungrily now. There was real intent behind it, and DeBryn’s blood heated and pooled in his groin, making his cock start to fill. He took a step backwards, pressing his back to the horrible tiles, encouraging the man to lean into him. The chap followed obediently, and DeBryn wound his fingers into his hair – that hair! That red-gold-tawny colour would have driven Botticelli mad, and DeBryn was briefly sorry he would never have a chance to see it in the sunshine – and kept kissing him.

The fellow kissed like he was hungry for it, as though he had been so starved of the slightest crumb of physical contact for so long he had forgotten how to act when a feast presented itself. He pressed close against DeBryn, cupping DeBryn’s shoulders, running long-fingered hands along DeBryn’s arms, pushing his coat and jacket open to lay a palm chastely – almost shyly – to DeBryn’s chest.

DeBryn would have dearly loved to take his time with this one. He would have liked nothing better than to take him to a hotel somewhere – or even to his home – to get him out of that cheap, wrinkled suit and discover what sounds could be coaxed from that beautiful throat, and whether those freckles continued along his shoulders.

But in the present location speed was of the essence. They may not stay undisturbed for long, and moreover most men came here simply to relieve an urge, not for a slow seduction, never mind that this one seemed as though he’d be content to stand here and kiss all night.

So DeBryn removed his hand from the man’s hair – slowly, there was a tension thrumming through his frame that reminded DeBryn of nothing so much as an animal poised to flee at the first scent of danger – and opened his jacket. He skated a hand across the flat stomach, and down to tug shirttails out of trousers.

Throughout this the chap kept kissing DeBryn, his mouth bolder and more insistent by the moment, but when DeBryn placed a hand on his belt buckle he froze.

DeBryn paused. Against the side of his hand the man’s stomach moved slightly with his breathing, and DeBryn shifted to smooth a thumb back and forth over bare skin, with its slight rasp of hair, giving the man a moment to reflect: to move away, if he had changed his mind, or to proceed.

A pink flush had spread along those high cheekbones. It made the freckles stand out even more clearly and DeBryn was distracted for a moment, captivated, until the man’s hands dropped to DeBryn’s belt.

The first sharp tug had DeBryn scrambling to reciprocate, and when the chap got DeBryn’s trousers open DeBryn had to reach down and still his hands.

‘No, you first,’ he murmured. ‘Then me.’

_If there’s time, and we’re not interrupted,_ was the unspoken addition; whether the chap realised it or not DeBryn didn’t know, but as DeBryn dipped his hand below the waistband of his underwear, the fellow’s eyes fluttered closed and he caught his lower lip between his teeth.

His lips had been kissed into redness, and DeBryn stroked his fingertips down the side of the man’s face to his mouth. His other hand burrowed deeper until his fingertips brushed through coarse hair and, a moment later, against hot skin, and he withdrew his hand briefly to push at the loosened waistband. If this chap wanted to be able to return to his lodgings and not worry about any incriminating marks they needed to get his trousers out of the way, and by now DeBryn was sure he hadn’t done this before because he made no move to help, only clutched at DeBryn as though DeBryn were about to tell him he had changed his mind, and the fellow had best cover himself up again.

The hanging shirttails hid most of him from DeBryn’s view, at least until DeBryn got hold of a fistful of shirt and tugged it up to see. A dab of lubricant from the tube tucked in DeBryn’s pocket, and when DeBryn took the man’s cock into his slippery fist the chap’s expression crumpled slightly, as though in pain.

He was hard and flushed in DeBryn’s palm, and DeBryn devoured the sight greedily. The hair between his legs was a few shades darker than that on his head, his balls already drawn tight beneath his cock, and DeBryn made a loose fist and rubbed it along the length of him, giving him something to push into.

As he thrust forward, uncertainly at first but gradually becoming more sure of himself, he braced his forearms on the tiles either side of DeBryn’s head. It opened up a gap between their bodies; DeBryn was torn between wanting the chap to lean into him again – he had liked his weight against him – or taking advantage of the opportunity to watch.

Because dear God he was beautiful, like a Caravaggio or a Michelangelo. Some men looked coarse during such moments – DeBryn suspect he himself probably did – but he watched this man taking his pleasure and thought of Renaissance paintings of martyrs, their expressions caught in the moment where agony and ecstasy met and mingled.

The man’s collar was open and DeBryn watched his pulse beat wildly in the hollow of his throat before succumbing to temptation and leaning in to cover it with his mouth. The man gasped, one narrow hand cupping the back of DeBryn’s head, and DeBryn laid careful kisses along the fellow’s slim throat, too experienced to leave any incriminating marks to be noticed later by unkind eyes, wanting only to bring him pleasure.

DeBryn tightened his grip, breaking the building rhythm for a moment to massage tightly all around the head, and the man abruptly dropped his hands to seize fistfuls of DeBryn’s overcoat, crowding close as his legs trembled beneath him.

‘Easy now,’ DeBryn murmured, as the man bowed his head to press his mouth to DeBryn’s neck, breathing gone ragged. ‘I’ve got you, easy there.’

It was no idle talk: the fellow had begun to lean into him heavily as he pushed into DeBryn’s fist harder, hungrily, and DeBryn slid his free arm around his waist to hold him steady.

His cock was hard as steel, rubbing silkily through DeBryn’s fist, and DeBryn swallowed hard and ignored his own arousal to follow the rhythm the chap was setting. He turned his head, nosing at the wild tangle of red-gold hair in the front of his face. It smelled clean, and faintly of old paper and dust. He looked a bookish sort, DeBryn thought, all dry and buttoned up and aesthetically beautiful, and he wondered how many had seen this side of the young man, this gorgeously sensual creature he became under a lover’s touch.

The fellow’s hands had slid down to clutch sweaty handfuls of DeBryn’s jumper, mauling it as he panted into DeBryn’s shoulder, and his hips rocked faster into DeBryn’s hand. He was getting rougher; not long now, if DeBryn was any judge, and he unwound his arm from the man’s waist to fish for a handkerchief.

Not a moment too soon either. The man was shuddering hard against him, the head of his cock bumping wet and slippery against the inside of DeBryn’s wrist, and DeBryn concentrated his attentions on the top few inches of his cock until the fellow squirmed against him.

For the first time a noise escaped him: a tiny, half-smothered groan through clenched teeth that would have gone unheard if the man didn’t have his mouth pressed almost to DeBryn’s ear. Was he quiet by nature, then, or was it due to the necessity of the location? Suddenly DeBryn wanted dearly to know, but he had no sooner had the thought than the man’s breathing grew ragged. His hips stuttered sharply and DeBryn gritted his teeth with lust at the telltale thickening at the base of his cock, the hitch of his stomach muscles, and only just got the wadded handkerchief down in time to catch the mess.

There was hardly a sound from him, even as he shook and pulsed into DeBryn’s hand, only a tiny moan as DeBryn pulled at him steadily, coaxing him through it until his handkerchief was soaked and the man sagged heavily against him, clumsy and shaky-legged as a new foal.

DeBryn kept his hand on him until the man began to soften, until DeBryn guessed it would grow uncomfortable, and then tried to find a clean spot on the soiled handkerchief to wipe his hands. He wound an arm around the man’s waist, rubbing his shoulder blades with his clean hand, while the slim back heaved and the chap panted hot breath into the crook of DeBryn’s neck.

After a few moments he lifted his head, and DeBryn bit his lip at the sight. Release had left his eyes heavy-lidded, a pink flush spread across those extraordinary cheekbones, and his mouth was flushed from kisses. The hair at his temples was just starting to be damp, and DeBryn brushed his fingertips across it before – captivated – stroking down and across the faintest rasp of evening stubble before tracing his lips.

The man smiled under DeBryn’s caress. And it was a caress, no use pretending otherwise, and no matter that they were perfectly anonymous and would never see each other again. He closed his eyes and smiled, an incongruous shy contentment, and DeBryn was enchanted. Thoroughly, helplessly enchanted at the display of male beauty in front of him, with his foolish heart clamouring for more than a quick pull in a public convenience, wanting the whole night. Until the chap turned his head to pull DeBryn’s fingertip between his lips.

Arousal crackled over DeBryn’s skin and he exhaled sharply; he had focused on the man’s pleasure to the neglect of his own, but it rushed up on him as his cock twitched and thickened, caught in his underwear. The man lapped at DeBryn’s fingertips, sucking lightly at them; his clean hand, thank goodness, although DeBryn couldn’t deny the erotic appeal of this fellow learning his own taste off DeBryn’s fingers.

He suckled at them, all soft lips and firm tongue, until DeBryn was sure he could come off from just the right pressure. Hang it, all he needed at this point was a thigh between his own and something to rub against, and when the chap twisted his head, letting DeBryn’s finger slide free, DeBryn bit back a groan.

The next instant DeBryn had to cram his fist between his teeth as the fellow stepped back, bent over to pull his own trousers and underwear up – God, he had a fantastic arse, all narrow hips and slight curves that DeBryn wanted to learn with his hands – and started to kneel.

‘No, don’t,’ DeBryn blurted, once it became apparent what he intended, grabbing at a fold of his overcoat.

The man paused, half-confused, half-wary.

‘Not... not “no”,’ DeBryn amended quickly, ‘it’s just.’ He gestured. ‘The knees of your trousers. You don’t want everyone to look at you and know.’

A soft hum was his only reply, along with a narrow hand sliding between his legs to cup his erection, and DeBryn swallowed back a harsh noise as the man perched on the edge of the toilet seat, hooked a finger through DeBryn’s belt loops, and drew him close.

His face was so close to DeBryn’s trouser front, his mouth so near to where DeBryn was hard and aching, and DeBryn flung out a hand to brace himself against the wall as he watched the man tug at his trousers, sliding his hand into DeBryn’s underwear to rub at him before drawing him out. He leaned forward, mouth already open, his intent clear, and DeBryn mustered his self-discipline and dropped a hand to shield himself. ‘Wait.’

The fellow’s mouth twisted impatiently as he looked up at DeBryn. ‘What now?’

‘Here.’ Hands trembling, DeBryn fumbled in the inner pocket of his overcoat, fishing out a condom and holding it out to him.

The man looked at DeBryn, doubt written all over his face, and DeBryn thrust it at him impatiently. ‘No, I don’t have anything. But you shouldn’t take my word for it.’

At this the fellow took the condom from DeBryn’s fingers, his reluctance plain, and DeBryn couldn’t help but add, tartly: ‘Believe me when I tell you I know far too much about transmissible diseases. And if you’d like to keep that attractive nose of yours then I advise you to acquire the habit.’

His cock twitched at the feel of the fellow rolling the condom down onto him, and DeBryn had to shut his eyes and turn his face away, unable to watch the first tentative dab of soft, pink tongue against the head of his cock.

He wasn’t bad at it. A little clumsy, although how much of that was due to inexperience and how much to the awkward position, DeBryn couldn’t tell. And he himself wasn’t exactly helping; he was bracing himself up with one hand on the wall, his legs quivering beneath him as he tried desperately to hold still, not to give in to the urge to thrust forward.

A soft tickle of hair low on his stomach made DeBryn open his eyes and look down. Through the fall of hair he saw the edge of a frown of concentration, and he gently laid his palm against the man’s forehead, a silent request. It was answered a moment later, as the man shifted his posture and looked up at DeBryn, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks and – oh Christ – his mouth and chin shiny with saliva, wet from the slick tight slide of DeBryn’s cock in and out of his mouth.

DeBryn swallowed back the noises that were rising in his throat. Instead he ran his fingertips lightly over the man’s face, that face of an angel with the mouth of an incubus, stroking lightly at the soft mess of hair that curled gently around his fingers, along the sharp jaw and the long throat. Under his touch he felt a twitch as the chap swallowed, and he took his hand away to press his clenched fist against the wall before he did something appallingly rude like grab at him.

He felt it starting: the delicious tension across the small of his back, sparking deep in his groin, and remembered enough of his manners to grip the chap’s shoulder warningly and gasp, ‘There, that’s it, I’m almost...’

The man drew back; DeBryn could have groaned at the loss of that perfect mouth on his cock but it didn’t do to be ungrateful and instead he stripped off the condom and took himself in hand quickly. A few brisk pulls were all he needed; no time to dig out another handkerchief, instead he half-twisted away, frantically, flinging up a forearm to brace himself up, and came all over the hideous tile work.

It was only through experience born of practice that he kept his feet; the pleasure of it rolled through him in waves that left him shaking and panting for breath. He closed his eyes, chasing the last shivers of pleasure, until they ebbed and faded and he sank pleasantly into a heavy-limbed lassitude.

Gradually he became aware of a warm body pressed up against his back. At some point his partner had got to his feet and stood behind DeBryn, and DeBryn looked down to find he was clutching DeBryn’s hips and was doubtless part of the reason DeBryn was still on his feet.

He had long hands, DeBryn noticed for the first time. Long and narrow; the hands of a scholar, or a musician. Was he fond of music? DeBryn didn’t recall seeing him at any concert he had attended; one couldn’t be everywhere, true, but DeBryn managed to get to most of them and he would have remembered such a face.

DeBryn sighed deeply. The chap pressed close behind him, resting his cheek against the crown of DeBryn’s head. More like a lover than an anonymous pick-up, and DeBryn slowly tidied himself away – moving gently so as not to dislodge the long fingers curled through his belt loops before covering the chap’s hands with his own smaller, squarer ones. The man echoed DeBryn’s sigh, his chest moving against DeBryn’s back and his hands shifting to tangle their fingers together, and for a long moment they stood there.

Not just beautiful but charmingly affectionate too, and DeBryn swallowed hard. He wanted more than this, damn it. He wanted the whole night, not just a snatched half-hour in a mildly disgusting public toilet; he wanted to peel this gorgeous creature out of his ill-fitting suit and revel in all that beautiful skin.

But it was useless to sigh over something that couldn’t be helped, and so DeBryn steeled himself and turned, untangling his hands. The man made no move to leave, however. Instead he merely stood there, looking at DeBryn with a questioning tilt to his head.

‘Well then,’ DeBryn said at last, when the chap didn’t move.

‘Yes.’

Definitely a northern accent. Faint, but by no means unpleasant, and DeBryn swiftly curtailed that line of thought. His opinion of it hardly counted, since he wouldn’t be hearing it again.

DeBryn watched the man hesitate. It went on a shade too long and he tensed subtly, prepared for regret, recriminations after the fact. God knew it had happened before: men so ill at ease with this part of themselves that the self-disgust set in even as they fastened their trousers.

But a second later the chap leaned in and down, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of DeBryn’s mouth. It was clumsy but sincere, and something in DeBryn’s chest turned over.

‘I...’ DeBryn hesitated. Those eyes watched him silently. A man could lose himself in eyes like those, and DeBryn dipped his head, busying his hands with straightening the chap’s coat for him, smoothing the line of a lapel. ‘I’m often here on Tuesday evenings.’

He was breaking one of his own cardinal rules of this: never develop a regular routine. Keep visits infrequent and irregular; a pattern made it more likely that someone, somewhere, would notice the evenings you disappeared, the time you couldn’t account for. But when DeBryn looked back up at the man’s guileless eyes, the fall of untidy hair, the faintest lingering flush in cheeks and lips, his reasons and rules seemed very far away.

‘I can’t.’ Regret flashed across the man’s face. ‘I’m not going to be in this area much longer.’

DeBryn’s heart sank. ‘Just passing through?’

The man’s mouth twisted and – just for a moment – DeBryn saw a flash of such sadness it took his breath away. ‘Something like that.’

Disappointment swelled heavy in DeBryn’s chest; despite having just got off he felt acutely dissatisfied.

‘I... um...’ The chap shifted his feet. ‘Thanks. For... you know.’

He caught hold of DeBryn’s hand, with that enchanting mix of boldness and shyness. DeBryn glanced up at him, wanting to speak but not knowing what to say, and he could _see_ the moment the idea crossed the fellow’s mind.

‘Don’t–’ DeBryn began.

‘Thomas,’ the chap said. ‘My name’s Thomas–’

‘And now that you’ve told me I shall do my best to forget it.’ DeBryn gripped his hand sharply, mingled warning and rebuke. ‘Don’t be such a fool. No names, not in places like this. Never any names.’

Thomas frowned at him, his mouth curling in displeasure, and just a touch of disdain. ‘It’s not my real name. Obviously.’

DeBryn wanted to reach up, to kiss the sulkiness out of that sensual mouth. Instead he said, ‘Good,’ and forced himself to inject a note of tartness in his voice. ‘Not entirely a fool then. Keep your pseudonym. But better yet, none at all. Even a false name can reveal too much about you.’ At Thomas’ look, DeBryn added, acidly, ‘Doubting Thomas, perhaps. Had a religious upbringing, did we? One that didn’t quite stick?’

The dull red creeping up his throat told DeBryn he had scored a hit. ‘I–’

‘Don’t. No more.’ Slowly, regretfully, DeBryn let his hand slide free. ‘Well, whatever your name is, I don’t suppose I shall see you again.’

The fellow smiled sadly. ‘No.’

‘Goodbye, then.’ DeBryn leaned up to brush a kiss over Thomas’ cheek. ‘And be careful, if you’re going to do this sort of thing. There are some rather nasty characters out there.’

DeBryn had never said that to any of the others. But then none of them had ever looked at him quite like this one did: his heart on his sleeve, and eyes such a curious mix of old beyond his years and yet achingly naive.

With that last warning DeBryn steeled himself and left, brushing past Thomas with a last squeeze of his arm, and paused outside the block to fish out his pocket torch.

It was late. And he was tired, and out of sorts; small wonder, though, when the stress of these visits left him weary and on edge for days afterwards.

The slender beam of the torch sliced through the darkness, and DeBryn set off along the track to his car. He didn’t look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See Chapter Notes at the end for warnings.

Since discovering Godstow DeBryn had rather lost count of the men he had encountered. They all faded together after a while, with only the memory of pleasure remaining, and DeBryn had never sought to recall any of their features or felt any distress at their individual memories blurring.

Yet something had shifted in him during that last visit, and over the following weeks DeBryn found himself all too easily distracted by thoughts of the red-haired young man with the clever eyes and sad, serious mouth. Thomas.

A glimpse of a tall figure with a crown of bright hair was enough to stop him in his tracks; bad enough when it happened in the street but inexcusable when it happened at the hospital. At concerts DeBryn was unable to muster his habitual concentration, his attention drifting among the crowd to search for glimpses of sharp cheekbones and intelligent blue eyes. At home, a glass of something at his elbow and book in his hand, DeBryn could close his eyes and recall the exact timbre of Thomas’ voice, the nervousness he had tried so hard to conceal but that, in hindsight, was perfectly clear.

Of course Thomas was nowhere to be seen. The half-glimpsed figures were never him, and he didn’t seem to frequent the same concerts DeBryn enjoyed. Yet DeBryn saw him everywhere: he found him in the sad, lamenting strains of Ravel, in the pages of Auden and Shelley. He was Shakespeare’s fair lad and Housman’s lost love, and when DeBryn lay in bed at night he closed his eyes and could almost pretend the hands running over his chest and hips weren’t his own but were longer, narrower ones.

Work was the answer, of that he was certain. Moping never solved anything, far better to keep busy instead, and so DeBryn threw himself into his work. He visited the Bodleian and caught up on recent research, and toyed with an article he had begun to write. He volunteered for extra shifts at the hospital, winning the gratitude of colleagues. Colleagues whose names he finally took the trouble to learn and remember. DeBryn was rather solitary by nature: the idea of joining any sort of club or society held little appeal, but he accepted an invitation to the weekly work drinks at the local pub. He began to build on his reputation for steady, meticulous work, and grew to know the various faces of the CID officers at the stations that fell within his jurisdiction. 

It wasn’t perfect, and a flash of a particular shade of red hair or a lithe figure still had the power to make his heart leap in hope. But it was a life, a better life than many had in this world, and DeBryn supposed he was content enough.

\----------

Thankfully, DeBryn never needed to force his concentration when confronted with the recently deceased. Some poor soul had died and needed his assistance; it would be unforgiveable to miss vital information through daydreaming when this was the last chapter in their life’s story, and arguably the one requiring closest attention.

So when he was called out to a suicide by the river, he found it easy to block out the chatter of the uniformed officers and focus on his work.

This one was young; it was always a pity to see a young life the owner hadn’t thought worth keeping, but it was all fairly textbook, nothing to trigger his instincts. The gunpowder residue on the temple was a typical pattern, and the fellow’s hand was still curled around the weapon that had made it. DeBryn crouched by the body for a closer look, vaguely aware of someone approaching, but he didn’t bother to look up as the new arrival announced himself with: ‘Morning.’

‘Not for this poor sod,’ DeBryn replied absently, still examining the entry wound until his brain caught up with his ears.

That voice... DeBryn had only a handful of words to go on, and the edges of the memory were worn and starting to fade, but that sounded an awful lot like...

The footsteps halted at the top of the bank. DeBryn rose to his feet, not quite willing to turn around. He had heard Thomas a dozen – a hundred – times over the past few weeks, and he told himself not to be such a fool, this was yet another mistaken identity. 

He turned, mentally preparing himself for disappointment, but when he finally looked at the new arrival his stomach executed a giddy lurch and he took a deep breath.

It was him. Or someone like enough to be his twin; he was turned half-away, staring out at the trees with only his profile visible, but DeBryn knew him. That shock of hair already curling defiantly out of its combed neatness, the corner of his mouth, that long back and longer legs standing tall and slender as a young birch tree.

What in God’s name was he doing here, of all places?

Still looking determinedly out at the horizon, Thomas shifted his weight. ‘Are you the pathologist?’

As opposed to a particularly inquisitive member of the public, for example?

‘You’d better hope so, hadn’t you.’ Despite his shock, DeBryn’s natural instincts asserted themselves and he couldn’t have stopped himself for anything in the world, not for a dozen attractive fellows. ‘Otherwise I’m making one hell of a mess of your scene of crime.’

This time DeBryn had the satisfaction of seeing Thomas’ head whip round to stare directly at him. His mouth fell open, the colour draining from his face, and DeBryn supposed vaguely that this answered the question of whether recognition was mutual.

‘You’re... oh Christ, you’re the pathologist,’ Thomas said. Half-croaked, his voice unsteady and his northern accent growing briefly thicker in his shock.

When it seemed that Thomas could do nothing but gawp in horror then DeBryn stepped forward. He was all too aware of the presence, mere yards away, of uniformed police officers who weren’t quite dull-witted enough for his peace of mind, and he tried for as normal an air as possible as he extended his hand. ‘Max DeBryn.’

Thomas finally recovered himself enough to move; he edged awkwardly halfway down the bank and offered. ‘Morse. Detective Constable. On attachment from Newtown.’

He reached for DeBryn’s hand before recoiling slightly, and DeBryn knew an instant of intense disappointment – one of those sorts of chaps: happy enough to use a fellow’s hand or mouth, but too good to shake his hand afterwards – before realising he still wore his blood-stained gloves. Once he had removed one then Thomas, or Morse, as DeBryn should presumably call him, clasped his hand readily enough.

His hands were just as DeBryn remembered. Long-fingered and narrow, seemingly delicate but with latent strength in his grip. His shoulders were broader than DeBryn’s recollection; in the summer sun his hair gleamed like a kestrel’s wing, his eyes deep blue, and DeBryn realised he still clutched the chap’s hand and dropped it, looking away.

‘Is it a scene of crime? The initial report suggested suicide.’

DeBryn was on safer ground here, literally as well as metaphorically once he retreated down the slope to the flat ground. ‘Looks to be.’

He slid his hand back into the glove, already too absorbed in his work to notice the faint tackiness of bloodied cotton on his fingertips, and crouched to point delicately. ‘Single entry wound, right temple. And the typical starburst pattern on the skin surrounding the wound, together with contact scorching, would suggest it was discharged at point-blank range. As you can see.’

There was no reply, and it dawned on DeBryn he was speaking to a conspicuously empty space at his side. He turned.

Morse was skulking at the top of the bank. He wouldn’t meet DeBryn’s gaze, staring off into the distance instead, and DeBryn slowly rose to his feet. ‘Squeamish, are we?’

Morse hunched his shoulders slightly, and DeBryn had an irrational wash of disappointment. Occasionally, in this role, he would encounter a DC who showed a flash of curiosity. Brilliance, even. In quiet moments DeBryn had amused himself by wondering what Thomas did for a living. Scholar, he had thought. Perhaps musician, or even a writer. But in all his imaginings, whatever Thomas’ profession, DeBryn hadn’t been prepared – hadn’t even considered – that the chap might be an incurious dolt.

Or, given his reaction to meeting DeBryn once again, was it really proximity to the corpse that was causing him to shy away?

DeBryn’s stomach sank in disillusionment, his mouth twisting sourly. ‘You won’t make much of a detective if you’re not prepared to look death in the eye.’

This was apparently the last straw.

‘Find me when you’re done,’ Morse bit out, sparing DeBryn only the briefest of glances before he stalked away.

DeBryn sighed, turning back to the body of the young man. After weeks of thinking he saw Thomas everywhere he looked, wishing vaguely for one more glimpse at him, he could only muse on the fact that _Be careful what you wish for_ had never rung so true.

It didn’t take long to finish his examination. He had been very nearly done when Morse arrived, but nevertheless DeBryn purposely drew it out a little longer, pettishly pleased at keeping him waiting. So much for his curt ‘Find me when you’re done,’ as though DeBryn were a dog to be called to heel.

Thomas – _Morse_ – had been rather different in DeBryn’s memories. Softer, somehow. More wistful and less sharp-edged, his blue eyes and his mouth holding a trace of some old sadness that made DeBryn want nothing more than to kiss him, coax a smile from him. This prickly stranger wore Thomas’ face, but there the resemblance ended.

All the same, when DeBryn packed up and made for his car, his stomach fluttered when he saw Morse leaning his pert arse against his car. Morse had tilted his face up to the sun, eyes closed to bask cat-like in the warmth, and DeBryn swallowed hard and tried not to stare too openly at the elegant lines of his jaw and throat.

Morse was ignoring the uniforms, though. Standoffish sort, was he? Well, the attractive ones often were, nothing new there.

As if he felt the pressure of DeBryn’s gaze, Morse opened his eyes, caught sight of DeBryn, and stood. ‘Finished?’ 

‘The hors d’oeuvres.’ It was fortunate DeBryn had no other urgent cases on. He could afford to bump this one up his schedule, for the sake of an old... whatever he was. ‘Entrée this afternoon, three o’clock sharp.’

Out of the corner of his eye, as DeBryn set down his kit, he saw Morse baulk. ‘You can give me your findings over the telephone, can’t you?’

The arrogance of him. DeBryn stopped short, making a bit of a production of looking Morse up and down, and Morse shifted his feet but held DeBryn’s gaze, a faint look of defiance stealing across his face. Who did he think he was? Any other new detective constable – and not a few sergeants – would have been delighted to get the results so swiftly.

‘You know there’s a word for people like you, Morse.’ DeBryn leaned heavily on his name, giving it the slightest bite, and watched the fellow’s face darken in a scowl.

‘Is there?’ A warning thrum to his tone.

Oho, that stung, did it? ‘Mmm. Necrophobic.’

DeBryn laid his case on the back seat of the car, mindful of the delicate equipment inside.

‘There’s a word for people like you too, I imagine. Anglo-Saxon, though, rather than Greek.’

DeBryn glanced up to catch a barbed smile from Morse, and he narrowed his eyes. Prideful as a cat, this one was. And DeBryn wasn’t entirely certain Morse’s retort had been entirely related to present circumstances and not a veiled reference to anything, as one might say, _previous_.

Well, beautiful he might be, and that might get him his way elsewhere, but if he thought that gave him the upper hand here – or permission to deliver such veiled insults – he was sorely mistaken. DeBryn looked at Morse over the tops of his spectacles, and saw Morse’s lips thin in irritation.

‘Weapon’s a Webley,’ DeBryn said at last. ‘If you’re interested.’

But Morse only shrugged, undaunted. ‘Point 455. Standard Army issue.’

Not just attractive but sharp too, DeBryn allowed grudgingly. ‘Not entirely a fool, then.’

Too late he recalled saying those words to this chap before, under very different circumstances, and he watched a flicker of something in his eyes, there and gone too quickly for DeBryn to parse.

‘Not entirely,’ was Morse’s only retort. ‘Time of death?’

‘Yesterday. Between eight and midnight.’

‘Did he leave anything behind?’

Morse’s eyes flickered nervously over to where the coroner’s men were securing the body for transport. Perhaps he really was squeamish, and that little performance back there had nothing to do with DeBryn and everything to do with the chap’s brains splattered across the grass.

He couldn’t resist. ‘Besides his grey matter on the greensward–’

‘I was thinking more of a note,’ Morse interrupted, just a shade too loudly, and DeBryn looked at him more closely. He was slightly peaky, even out in the sunshine. Well now.

In all his years DeBryn had never encountered an officer who got ill at the sight of blood. Some of them had rather the opposite problem, in fact, and occasionally discussed DeBryn’s patients with a callousness he disliked hearing. Perils of the job, presumably.

‘Not that I’ve come across. But–’ DeBryn fished in his pocket, ‘you might have better luck at his lodgings. This was in his pocket.’ He handed the letter over, noting how Morse took it delicately with long fingers that just failed to brush DeBryn’s own. ‘Miles Percival. Address is in Jericho.’

Duty discharged, DeBryn opened the driver’s door. Unlikely he’d be seeing this chap again; an attachment from Carshall Newtown, he had said, which presumably meant he had been brought in for the Mary Tremlett search and would be dispatched back there once it was over. No great loss, particularly since he seemed as enthused to see DeBryn as DeBryn was to find that memory had been generous in the extreme.

‘Um.’ Morse put his hand out before DeBryn could get into his car, stopping just short of touching him. He leaned in slightly and DeBryn mirrored him, his heart skipping a beat. Had he perhaps been wrong? Was the chap’s attitude just down to the shock of meeting again under such circumstances–

‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a lift?’

Or perhaps not, DeBryn thought, sighing, a sharp twinge of disappointment mingling with irritation at his own foolish naivety. This upstart really was the limit.

But DeBryn knew himself too well. If anyone else had proposed to treat the Home Office pathologist as a taxi service they would have received short shrift, but he had always been a fool for a beautiful face. And heaven knew it would be rather pleasant to have something to brighten up the drive back into town.

So DeBryn jerked his chin silently at the passenger door, and Morse scooped up his coat and hurried around to get in, looking suitably grateful for the first time since DeBryn had turned and seen him standing there as though he had stepped straight out of DeBryn’s fevered imaginings.

The first five minutes of the drive passed in silence, until Morse drew breath and licked his lips. DeBryn glanced at him.

‘I wanted to...’ Morse broke off, swallowed. DeBryn granted himself a look at that pale throat before resolutely pulling his eyes back to the road. ‘You’re not going to... say anything. Are you?’

DeBryn frowned slightly, puzzled. ‘Why would I? It’s no concern of mine.’ Morse sank back into his seat and DeBryn continued, rather more reproving, ‘although I warn you that even the dullest plod will notice if you persist in keeping such a distance from a corpse, as though you think it’s going to sit up and–’

‘Not. No. Not about that.’ Morse sounded strained. ‘About...’

‘ _Oh_.’ DeBryn forgot himself enough to look over at Morse in shock, until Morse’s terse gesture directed his attention back to the road.

Was the chap mad? Did he think the medical community – to say nothing of the Home Office – were so magnificently accepting of sexual deviance among their numbers that DeBryn would risk torpedoing his own career for the sake of causing harm to some fellow who shared his predilections?

Or had Morse simply been used so ill, in the past, that he now expected it as his due?

DeBryn glanced over and found Morse watching him, his blue eyes wide and wary in his narrow face, his brow furrowed and his fists clenched in his lap. Braced for fight or flight, and DeBryn shot him a look that he hoped conveyed his incredulity. ‘Are you out of your senses?’

Morse made no reply and DeBryn sighed. ‘Of course I’m not going to say anything. And incidentally it’s a pleasure to know our last meeting left you with such a high opinion of me.’

Morse exhaled a breath that sounded as though he had held it for some time, settling limply into the seat and scrubbing a hand over his face.

‘Or,’ DeBryn warmed to his theme, piloting the car deftly along narrow country roads, ‘is it possible the phrase “mutually assured destruction” truly never entered your head?’

‘Alright,’ Morse snapped, and flung out a hand to brace himself on the dashboard as DeBryn took a bend with just a little too much irritated speed. ‘Yes, alright. I see.’ After a moment he added, sulkily, ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you?’ DeBryn echoed, glancing over at him again. ‘Do you imagine the Home Office to be such a delightfully understanding employer that I’m doing this solely out of the goodness of my heart?’

Morse’s eyes widened at DeBryn’s pointed tone. It made him look younger. Naive. ‘Oh, I... no, I don’t. But I would never – I _will_ never – um. Say anything.’

‘Good.’ DeBryn only grew aware of the tension in his shoulders as it began to dissipate. That, at least, was one weight off his mind. ‘And here I thought you clever.’

There was a pause, before Morse murmured, ‘And nobody calls you a dunce, and people suppose me clever.’

Startled, DeBryn looked over at him, jerking his eyes back to the road the next instant before he landed them both in a ditch. Dear God, this chap was turning out to be a most unexpected passenger: one minute looking at DeBryn as though expecting him to stab him through the heart with one of his scalpels, the next quoting Browning at him. And surely Morse couldn’t know the next couplet, or the subject of the whole poem, or he wouldn’t recite it so blithely to a chap he had once picked up for sex.

DeBryn cleared his throat weakly. ‘Quite.’

Silence fell, and DeBryn chewed at his lip. They had spoken, and there was an end to it; more than that was none of his business. And yet there was something about this fellow: the wide-eyed way he approached the world, the hesitancy in him that first evening, that stirred vague and thoroughly inconvenient protective impulses in DeBryn.

‘Although,’ DeBryn began, hesitant even as the urge to speak grew overwhelming, ‘if my advice is worth a jot to you, you’ll stop using that location.’

In his peripheral vision, DeBryn saw Morse look over at him, a curious slant to his eyebrows. DeBryn sighed. How could this man be so bookish yet so ignorant of human nature, all at once?

‘I’m alright,’ DeBryn said, obliquely. ‘I have a very small circle of acquaintances outside of work. And most of the people I meet during the course of it, shall we say, aren’t likely to tell tales.’ He permitted himself a dry smile. ‘But policemen become known faces in the community, at least they do if they’re any good.’ DeBryn found himself enunciating carefully, trying to sound less irritated than he felt. ‘It’s only a matter of time before someone recognises you; in fact you’re lucky they haven’t done so already. And they may not be as willing to keep your secret.’

DeBryn risked another glance at him, to be sure his message was received and understood. A blush had climbed up Morse’s throat, pinking his cheeks and making the tips of his ears glow. He made no reply and DeBryn shrugged inwardly. Well, the friendly warning had been given, there was no more he could do.

‘I don’t think that’s likely to be a problem,’ Morse said at last, the words sounding forced out of him.

DeBryn arched an eyebrow. ‘If you say so. Although I think that’s a rather generous estimate of human nature.’

‘No. I mean.’ Morse cleared his throat, seeming fascinated by the greenery flashing past outside his window. ‘I don’t usually do that sort of thing.’

That confirmed a suspicion DeBryn had harboured since that evening. And yet... ‘Nor did any of us, once upon a time,’ he retorted. ‘But if you plan to make a habit of it–’

‘I won’t. I did tell you: I’m not going to be around.’ Morse rubbed a thumb over a smudge on his coat sleeve. ‘Or don’t you remember?’

‘Oh, I remember.’ DeBryn slowed as he approached a turning, indicating left. ‘I just didn’t believe you.’

‘What? But I–’

‘I know. You said you weren’t going to be in the area. And yet–’ DeBryn flicked a pointed glance at him, at the whole of his lanky frame folded into the passenger seat, ‘–here you are.’

Morse shifted. ‘It’s not what it sounds like.’

DeBryn shrugged. ‘It really doesn’t matter.’

It did. It stung, in fact, that Morse had managed to infuse such genuine-sounding regret into his refusal that DeBryn had been fooled. And in the end it had simply been a polite lie. DeBryn was used to it – he was under no illusions of being young or trim enough to keep the interest of a beautiful creature like this. Yet it still stung.

‘No, really. Look.’ Morse dug inside his jacket, retrieving a white envelope that he brandished at DeBryn. ‘I’ve my resignation letter all ready to–’

‘Shush,’ DeBryn said, and Morse closed his mouth, affronted. ‘It’s not a capital crime, Morse. It’s a polite social lie. We all tell them.’

‘I don’t,’ he muttered, sounding mutinous, and DeBryn almost believed him.

It was with a sense of relief that DeBryn approached Wolsey College and could finally pull over to the kerb, favour discharged.

‘Here we are, then.’

Morse sat up from his slouch, peered out of the windscreen. ‘But Jericho is half a mile that way.’

No hesitation. He knew his way about Oxford then, and DeBryn quashed his nascent curiosity. ‘Yes, it is.’ He pointed to the junction at the end of the road. ‘However Cowley General is that way. And I do have a job beyond playing taxi driver to itinerant new detectives.’

‘Alright.’ Morse was already reaching for the door, but paused. ‘Needless to say, I don’t see any need for us to... to...’

‘Ever speak of this again? No, nor do I.”

‘Right. Good.’ Morse hunched his shoulders slightly. ‘Goodbye, then.’

And with that, he was gone.

DeBryn paused, watching Morse walk away in the wing mirror under the pretence of checking the traffic. The slim back, those long legs, that crown of flaming hair that looked as though it needed very little encouragement to degenerate into a sybaritic mess of curls... DeBryn sighed, his heart unaccountably heavy.

It really shouldn’t have meant anything. An anonymous encounter in the twilight that didn’t stand up to scrutiny in the light of day. There was no grand tragedy in that, only the same story that had played out countless times through history, and would doubtless play out countless more.

And yet – Morse disappeared from sight around the corner, and DeBryn indicated before pulling away from the kerb – between his job and the lifestyle his inclinations required, DeBryn had few illusions about the worst side of people. It would have been rather nice if, just once, the universe could have let him keep one of those illusions a little longer.

\----------

Apparently the universe, not content with how the previous day had played out, wanted to rub salt in the wound, for it was the very next morning DeBryn received the call to say the body of a woman matching Mary Tremlett’s description had been found in Bagley Wood. DeBryn noted the information, hung up, and groaned inwardly.

A day. Perhaps two days, that was all he had wanted: just enough time to lick his wounds in light of the unexpected meeting and Morse’s clear embarrassment. Yet almost at once guilt bit sharply at him. Somewhere out there was a family waiting for news of their daughter; it was monstrously selfish to wish to delay that for them.

As he drove, DeBryn shook his head at himself. He was tired, that was all. Last night he had drunk perhaps half a finger’s-width more Scotch than he should have, reading through a book of Eliot and trying determinedly not to mope, and it had left him out of sorts.

By the time he reached the location he had pulled himself together, and he parked and unpacked his equipment with his usual precision, checking everything. He couldn’t afford any mistakes, not when it may mean the difference between resolution and uncertainty for a grieving family.

When Thursday’s and Lott’s voices carried down to DeBryn on the air, he called out his findings without looking up; he knew Thursday too well to bother with niceties, and he didn’t much care for Lott’s good opinion, or the lack of it. So it was only when DeBryn raised his head that he saw the third figure.

The two older men stood at the top of the bank, looking down at the scene with the faintly wearied air of those who had seen all the world could throw at them, like the experienced coppers they were. By contrast Morse – lanky and awkward in his dark suit – hovered off to one side, looking very much like a young crow that would go flying off at the slightest provocation. For an aspiring detective it was an astonishingly uninterested display, and as DeBryn watched Morse turned his head slightly, enough to peer at the body, before catching DeBryn’s eye and quickly looking away.

DeBryn turned back to the girl. When he next looked up, it was to see Morse’s retreating back, with Thursday pacing carefully behind him, and DeBryn shook his head. Thursday’s new protégé, presumably, given the look of thunder on Lott’s face. DeBryn had only the vaguest idea of the station’s internal politics – a state of affairs with which he was blissfully happy – but even he couldn’t miss the fact that Lott looked like a man whose nose had been put well and truly out of joint.

There was nothing more to be done at the scene. DeBryn packed up his kit while wondering whether Morse would manage to wriggle out of this post-mortem as he had with Miles Percival’s yesterday. In DeBryn’s admittedly limited experience Thursday’s word was law to those men under him at the station, yet if anyone could wring a concession it would be Morse, with those guileless blue eyes and his painfully earnest air.

Whatever arguments Morse deployed – and DeBryn was entirely prepared to admit that a pair of bright eyes were unlikely to win as many concession from the detective inspector as they would from DeBryn himself – they failed. The mortuary door swung open promptly at the appointed time, as DeBryn was readying his tools to start, and Morse slunk in at Thursday’s heels, wide-eyed and even paler than his usual.

DeBryn nodded to them both, meeting Morse’s gaze for only the barest fraction of a second. Thursday was sharp as they came; if DeBryn had to see Morse’s nervously flared nostrils, or the skittish curl of his hands, he would say or do something far too revealing, he knew it. And small hope of Thursday missing it, particularly when directed at someone as firmly under his wing as Morse already seemed to be.

They came to stand on the other side of the table, Morse hanging back but stepping forward at a frown from Thursday, and DeBryn cleared his throat and began without further preamble.

‘Subject is a well-nourished female, approximately fifteen years of age...’

It was almost automatic by now, and DeBryn quickly fell into the familiar routine of it. May as well start with the head injury; it was the most likely cause of death, not to mention the procedure had a pleasing drama to it. May as well show the impudent fellow that DeBryn was good for more than as a mere provider of transport.

Even pressure on the scalpel, a steady slice across the cranium, then dirty scalpel in the tray and grip the flap of scalp with a firm pull and the whole thing would peel forwards like an orange–

‘Morse? Morse!’

DeBryn looked up sharply, just in time to see Morse – without noise or fuss – collapsing bonelessly into Thursday’s arms, while Thursday adjusted his grip and huffed something that sounded suspiciously close to a laugh.

‘Alright lad.’ Thursday supported Morse’s weight, easing him down to the floor rather than letting him drop like a sack of potatoes. Good Lord, the chap really was out for the count. ‘Easy there. You’ll be alright.’ DeBryn watched Thursday cup a protective hand under Morse’s skull, laying his head almost tenderly down on the tiles, and looked away as Thursday straightened up.

‘I think it’s your particular brand of theatre, DeBryn.’ The suspicion of a smile lingered around Thursday’s lips. ‘All a bit much for him.’

‘Hmm.’ Thursday stepped up to the table, all business once more, and DeBryn renewed his grip on the scalp but paused. Try as he might, he was uncomfortably aware the morgue’s tiled floor was hard, and freezing, and that it saw various bodily fluids during the course of a normal day. Like Mr Fitzgerald just before lunch, in fact, who had not been without his points of interest, but who had also proved unexpectedly runny.

DeBryn stepped back from the table, not bothering to hide his peevish tone. ‘I’ve a sofa in my office. We might pop him on there until we’re done.’

Thursday glanced down at Morse casually, as though having one’s bagman sprawled on the floor was a normal occurrence, and then at DeBryn. His eyes were disconcertingly sharp.

‘I find one lifeless body in the room is quite enough, generally speaking.’ DeBryn glanced at Morse before shrugging. ‘Or there’s an empty trolley over there you could pop him on, and I’ve a spare sheet somewhere–’

‘And frighten the life out of the lad when he wakes up,’ Thursday retorted. ‘No, the sofa will do. That way, is it?’

DeBryn nodded. He was about to offer to grab Morse’s feet if Thursday took his head, but Thursday leaned down and, with a bit of hoisting, scooped the lad up. Thursday was either stronger than he looked, under that extra weight he carried, or Morse was truly skin and bones; DeBryn left Thursday to deal with Morse and went ahead to clear the sofa of its habitual books and papers.

Throughout it Morse didn’t stir, oblivious to it all; DeBryn idly tried to calculate his likely resting blood pressure given his weight and height, until Thursday dumped him more or less gently on the overstuffed old sofa. Even unconscious, in an ungainly heap of limbs, the fellow’s relaxed face reminded DeBryn of Carrara marble carvings in cathedrals, and he turned away before Thursday could catch him staring.

‘There.’ DeBryn filled a glass of water from the tiny sink in the corner and placed it – as if by chance – at Morse’s side. The readiest remedy for low blood pressure he knew of. ‘He’ll keep fine for an hour or so. Now then.’

And with no more to do for the living, DeBryn turned his attention once more to the deceased.

\----------

When it was all finished, DeBryn went though his clean-down routine automatically, his mind busy. Morse had poked his nose out of DeBryn’s office towards the end of the procedure – DeBryn had been standing with his back to the office door but the shift in Thursday’s attention had been palpable – but waited until it was all over before he slunk out. If he had been a dog his tail would have been tucked out of sight between his legs; he glanced neither to the right nor to the left, and certainly not to where DeBryn stood, bloody to the elbows. Instead he skulked by the door as DeBryn exchanged his final words with Thursday, all the while watching Morse covertly and noting the pallor lingering in his cheeks and lips.

Death came for all, sooner or later. Usually DeBryn had no time for disgust or squeamishness in the face of it, and even less patience for such displays among those who ought to know better. Yet as he wiped and cleaned methodically, he spared a hope that Thursday had the sense to take Morse for lunch. Somewhere out in the fresh air, preferably; not only food but also some sunshine would be the best thing for him just then.

Further than that DeBryn didn’t permit himself to think. It was unwise to linger over considerations of how little Morse obviously weighed, or recall how sharp his hipbones had been when - the first time they met – he leaned against DeBryn, taking his pleasure in DeBryn’s hands. Or wonder whether the limpness of Morse unconscious was in any way comparable to the feel of him satisfied and post-coital.

\----------

It was only a couple of days later that DeBryn was confronted with a Morse as wild and flushed as to be almost unrecognisable from the pale and subdued creature of last time.

DeBryn was working late in his office, catching up on his reading. His lamp made a small pool of light at his desk, and he had poured himself a finger of Glenfiddich from the bottle on top of his bookcase. Truth be told, he rather enjoyed the peace of the mortuary at night, when all was silent and it was possible to pretend – however briefly – that with sufficient order and method all puzzles could be unravelled, and all wrongs righted.

He had just started in on a promising review of the effects of temperature on post-mortem lividity, and had barely finished the first paragraph before there was a distant bang.

‘DeBryn?’

The shout was hoarse, desperate, and DeBryn suppressed a sigh as he stood.

‘In here,’ he called. He made his way to the office door, intending to open it to whichever hapless junior officer had been sent to request his services, but before he could get there Morse burst into the office.

‘Morse.’ DeBryn hadn’t recognised his voice and small wonder, this was a Morse entirely different to the silent man who had slunk out at Thursday’s heels. ‘Good God. What on earth is the matter?’

Morse was flushed, his hair awry, and he rushed through DeBryn’s office door as though he were being pursued. ‘Is she here?’

‘What?’

Morse’s sides heaved for breath; he stumbled into DeBryn’s office, and DeBryn shut the door behind him. ‘Did you run all the way here?’

It was intended as a light jest, but when Morse only hung his head and gulped for air DeBryn realised, shocked, that he hadn’t been too far wrong.

‘Sit down, Morse, for heaven’s sake.’ DeBryn laid a hand on Morse’s shoulder, steering him to the sofa before his legs gave out entirely, but Morse twisted under his hand and caught his forearm in an iron grip. ‘Morse!’

‘Have they brought her down already?’

There was a hectic glitter in his eyes and a flush high on his cheeks that made DeBryn think of drugs. ‘Brought who down?’

Morse shuddered, his mouth working. ‘Rosalind Calloway.’

Not drugs, DeBryn realised a moment later. Tears.

‘No,’ he said, keeping his tone deliberately calm in the hope Morse would follow. ‘Should I be expecting her?’

It was the wrong thing to say: Morse’s mouth crumpled and he twisted his face away, and DeBryn took advantage of his momentary lapse to haul him over to the sofa and push him down onto it. He turned away tactfully, giving Morse a few moments of privacy, and when he turned back it was to find Morse curled forward, his elbows braced on his knees and his face sunk into his hands.

‘Here.’ DeBryn’s voice came out more gently than he had intended but it was hard to sound otherwise, with Morse falling to pieces on his sofa. ‘Drink this.’

He held out a glass with a generous measure of his precious Glenfiddich, and grimaced faintly as he watched Morse tip half of it straight down his throat without tasting it.

‘You know–’ DeBryn began, but stopped when Morse lifted his face.

He looked on the verge of tears again, his eyes the pale blue of a desolate winter sky, the sort that froze birds mid-flight until they dropped like lifeless stones.

‘You mustn’t touch her,’ Morse said, long fingers wrapped tightly around the glass. ‘You can’t... cut her up. Promise me.’

‘Morse.’ DeBryn pulled his chair out from behind his desk and sat opposite Morse. Almost close enough to reach out and touch, and certainly close enough to see the suspicious wetness in Morse’s eyes. ‘Drink that.’ He indicated the glass Morse was clutching. ‘Slowly. Sip it – that’s best Glenfiddich, you know. Then tell me what happened.’

‘She’s dead,’ Morse said, his voice cracking. The desk lamp cast odd shadows across his face, and his anguished eyes reminded DeBryn of Rembrandt paintings of men tortured to death by inches. ‘I killed her. She saved my life, a long time ago. And I repaid her with her death.’

Had Morse been drinking already? He made no sense at all, and DeBryn took a deep breath, followed by a drink of Scotch. ‘Slow down. And tell me from the beginning.’

‘It was the dress. I only wanted to find out who had bought the dress, if I’d known it was her then I’d never have – oh Christ.’ Morse dropped his head, fingers pinching hard at the bridge of his nose, and DeBryn sighed quietly.

Slowly, in fits and starts, he drew the story out of Morse. In an ideal world the telling of it would have helped, somehow, like drawing poison from a wound. Yet with each stumbling phrase, each facet of the story uncovered, Morse’s voice shook as though DeBryn were twisting the knife deeper, and by the time DeBryn had the full story Morse’s cheeks were wet anew, and DeBryn half-expected to see blood dripping from a wound.

‘But don’t cut her up.’ Morse was openly begging now; he smeared a hand roughly across his cheeks, and DeBryn fished out a clean pocket handkerchief and silently passed it over. ‘Please. I’ll... anything, I’ll do anything you want, only don’t–’

‘Morse,’ DeBryn interrupted, before Morse said something that couldn’t be diplomatically misunderstood. ‘I have to do my job.’

They were hard words to say, in the face of Morse’s obvious anguish. But DeBryn’s instincts told him this man would prefer a hard truth to a soothing lie, and he continued as gently as he could: ‘It’s not up to me. If the coroner orders a full post-mortem, then I’ll–’

‘Please. No, please, you can’t; you don’t need to, I just told you she hung herself–’

‘I promise I won’t do more than necessary,’ DeBryn said, breaking his self-imposed reserve and reaching out to catch hold of Morse’s hand. ‘And what I do have to do will be... gentle. That at least I can promise you.’

Thank God Morse accepted this: his head drooped forward and he gave a great shuddering sigh. His hand curled tightly around DeBryn’s, and DeBryn looked down at the long fingers wrapped around his own shorter ones and almost choked with the sheer uselessness of all the unsaid things under his tongue.

‘I...’ Morse raised his head and blinked, seeming to notice for the first time DeBryn’s open journal, the lamp on the desk. ‘Alright.’

Morse knocked back the rest of his whisky, unwound his hand from DeBryn’s, and stood. He moved stiffly, like a puppet, or a man who had received a mortal wound but kept going in the face of blood loss and shock. DeBryn watched Morse set his glass mechanically on the desk and stumble over to the door.

‘Where do you think you’re going, in that state?’

Morse blinked at him. ‘Back to my lodgings.’

DeBryn pursed his lips. ‘You can’t go like that.’

‘I have to.’ Morse straightened to his full height, one hand on the doorknob, gathering his manners around himself like a threadbare king. ‘I’ve already disturbed you enough.’

DeBryn snorted. ‘Not from anything that can’t wait. And besides: I wouldn’t have turned a dog away in the state you were in, much less a man. I may work with the dead rather than the living, but I still took an oath, I’d like you to remember.’ He looked Morse over, came to a decision, and stood. ‘Now. Just wait a moment.’

Under Morse’s uncomprehending gaze DeBryn tided away the journal and glasses, but when he pushed the chair under the desk and switched off the lamp then Morse frowned. ‘You’re not leaving.’

‘I was just about to when you arrived,’ DeBryn lied. ‘Come on. I’ll drive you home.’

Even knowing Morse as little as he did, DeBryn was prepared for argument, for protest that he was fine. He was unprepared for Morse to allow himself to be steered, utterly docile, and it worried DeBryn far more than any amount of truculence.

In the car Morse slumped in the passenger seat, crumpled like a broken toy, shifting only to mutter directions, until at last they pulled up beside a red-brick house, set a little way back from the road. DeBryn peered curiously at it before looking over at Morse. The trickle of light from the lamp over the front door was just enough to show his cheeks were wet once more; he didn’t seem to have noticed, and DeBryn bit his lip against a surge of compassion.

‘Morse...’ Slowly, like a dreamer, Morse turned his head. ‘We’re here.’

‘Oh.’ Morse stirred. ‘Yes. Thanks for the lift.’

‘You’re welcome,’ DeBryn answered, automatically, before reaching out and laying an impulsive hand on Morse’s forearm. He licked his lips, and spoke quietly. ‘Do you want me to come in?’

The sound of Morse’s indrawn breath reached DeBryn’s ears; the forearm under his hand tensed slightly, yet DeBryn waited. Because this wasn’t pathologist and detective constable, this was two men who already knew each other intimately, for all that they were almost strangers, and despite the inherent risk DeBryn could no more have turned away from Morse in that state than he could have cut off his own hand.

‘I’m not...’ Morse’s voice was low, rough. ‘Not in the mood for. That.’

‘No,’ DeBryn said, obscurely irritated with Morse for not seeing, not understanding. He had his faults, God knew, but DeBryn flattered himself he wasn’t the sort to prey on a man half-blinded by grief. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

Morse’s head turned, his eyes flickering down to DeBryn’s hand still on his forearm before raising to his face.

‘I’m not asking,’ DeBryn murmured, awkwardly. ‘I’m... offering.’

For a long moment Morse simply held his gaze silently. His eyes were reddened, but they held a glimmer of their usual sharpness and DeBryn tried to swallow unobtrusively as Morse spoke. ‘Offering what?’

How to explain?

‘Whatever you need.’ Boldly, DeBryn dared to let his fingers tighten fractionally, enough to feel Morse’s forearm warm and firm beneath the fabric. ‘No man is an island, after all.’

Morse sighed, and DeBryn prepared himself to be gently rebuffed, but instead he bowed his head. ‘Alright then.’

The car rocked slightly as Morse opened the door and climbed out, and DeBryn sat frozen for a moment – the fabric of Morse’s suit a ghost-whisper under his fingertips – before stirring himself and following.

The lodging house was silent, all the lights off and its inhabitants long abed, and a couple of the stairs creaked loudly as they climbed. In Morse’s room DeBryn looked around curiously, taking in the faded wallpaper and the photographs on the walls. He had seen prison cells with more life and personality, and he shrugged off his jacket before approaching Morse warily.

Morse stood in the middle of the room, looking lost. As though the spring that had driven him this far had unwound all at once and he no longer knew what to do. He twitched when DeBryn laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

‘Sleep now,’ DeBryn suggested, curling his fingers around Morse’s jacket lapel and easing it off his shoulders. ‘Things will look different in the morning, I promise you. Sleep.’

‘That knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,’ Morse murmured, shrugging his shoulders obediently and letting DeBryn take his jacket off him.

‘So we’re told.’ Bookish as well, even in the midst of his sadness, and DeBryn had a regretful pang as he hung the jacket over a chair. He could have grown attached to this one, with very little trouble indeed. Perhaps best all round that, when the case was done and paperwork duly filed, he would be off back to Newtown.

When DeBryn turned back Morse had sat on the edge of the bed, toeing off his shoes and kicking them aside before collapsing sideways, fully dressed, not bothering to get under the covers. Perhaps this was all he had needed, just someone to see him upstairs and into bed, rather than going for that bottle of cheap Scotch on the dresser and drinking himself into a stupor.

Rolling onto his side Morse shifted, meeting DeBryn’s eyes. He held out his hand and, heart leaping into his throat, DeBryn crossed the room to take it. Morse’s fingers curled around his own, their touch cool and tentative; in other circumstances it might have been construed as an invitation and DeBryn couldn’t deny the thought crossed his mind as he looked down at Morse’s open shirt collar, the hint of collarbone, the parted sprawl of his thighs. But such imaginings died as he looked at Morse’s face, heavy with sorrow and weary beyond tiredness, and DeBryn sighed.

Pausing only to pull the topmost blanket out from under Morse and flip it over him, DeBryn perched gingerly on the edge of the bed before cautiously swinging his legs up to lean back against the headboard. It was small and narrow enough for one – goodness knew how Morse fit his height comfortably in there – and DeBryn held himself half-braced against the likelihood of sliding out and onto the floor. Morse sighed, body spilling towards him, and DeBryn’s stomach jumped slightly as Morse’s chest settled heavy against his left leg, his face pressed against DeBryn’s hip.

Abruptly DeBryn was utterly tongue-tied, all his cleverly apposite quotations deserting him. He ought to say something, to let Morse know he wasn’t facing this alone, except that of course he was, wasn’t he? Grief was famously the loneliest place in the world, and all DeBryn could think of was to rest his free hand – the one that wasn’t being clutched like a lifeline – in Morse’s unruly hair.

It was soft under his fingers, curling lightly as he touched it. Morse sighed and DeBryn froze, but he looked down to see some of the tension had leached out of Morse’s features and, tentatively, he repeated the motion.

The world shrank to encompass the two of them, their own little island of peace, with the only sounds the soft whisper of DeBryn’s fingers in Morse’s hair, and the occasional rustle as Morse shifted. It was easy to lose track of time, in fact, and DeBryn only came back to himself when Morse heaved a ragged sigh, his fingers twitching in DeBryn’s clasp.

Asleep at last, and DeBryn watched the curves of his ribs, so deceptively delicate in appearance, gently rise and fall beneath his shirt. Thank God for that. Hardly daring to move, DeBryn laid his glasses gently on the nightstand before letting his head tilt back to rest against the headboard. He slid his hand back into Morse’s hair, shaping his hand lightly over the skull’s curve, and closed his eyes, settling in for the night. Not terribly comfortable but no matter. As a medical student he had developed the knack of falling asleep anywhere; there were certainly worse places to spend a night than in a vigil over the dreams of such a man, one with the mournful eyes of a fallen angel.

\----------

The dawn was just beginning to lighten the room when DeBryn woke. His neck and spine felt fused into an unyielding column, his tongue dry as a flap of leather, and his eyes gritty. For a moment he blinked, confused, thinking he had once again fallen asleep while reading in bed, but the warm weight against his left leg made him look down and, in a rush, memories of last night surfaced.

Like so many, Morse looked younger when asleep. The lines of stress and impatience were wiped away, leaving his expression far softer and more open than DeBryn had ever seen it. His lips were slightly parted, his face upturned as though for a lover’s kiss; his lashes rested softly on his flushed cheeks and his hair curled rebelliously at his temples, and DeBryn was entranced. He couldn’t help himself: he feathered his fingers softly over Morse’s hair, smoothing it back from his forehead before, made fanciful by the hush and the dim light, he breathed: ‘God in his mercy lend him grace.’

A terrible bastardisation of the original, and DeBryn was all too aware he made a poor sort of Arthurian knight, but if Tennyson could see the features in question he would surely forgive the liberty.

A last brush over Morse’s sleeping head, and DeBryn forced himself to contemplate the day. A shower was the first order of business. A shower to ease his aching neck, and hot coffee, and a change of clothes, but first and foremost he needed to leave, before someone looked out of the window to note the strange car that had spent the night in the forecourt.

DeBryn eased himself away, moving as lightly as he knew how, but even so Morse stirred, eyelashes fluttering, and DeBryn cursed inwardly as his chest lifted in a deep, waking breath.

‘Sleep,’ DeBryn murmured, almost whispered, but it was useless, and Morse’s eyes opened. In the dim light they were the dark blue of a fathoms-deep ocean, and DeBryn laid his palm lightly on Morse’s forehead, wishing he could stop that brain starting up by sheer force of will. ‘Go back to sleep.’

Morse blinked heavily at him, and DeBryn could see the very moment the memory hit him: his face pinched, and he gave a low, pained noise.

‘Don’t think about it.’ DeBryn rubbed his thumb over Morse’s temple, desperately trying to wipe away the memory even as Morse’s brow creased in recollection. ‘Don’t– Listen to me. Do you know “The Lady of Shalott”? Tennyson?’

Confused, Morse nodded, his eyes sleepy but focussed.

‘Recite it to yourself now, in your head,’ DeBryn ordered. It was all he could think of, and it had worked for him often enough. ‘Concentrate on it. You’ll be asleep before you get to the end.’

For a moment he thought Morse would baulk, would shrug off his hand, but as he watched Morse’s eyes slid closed and his lips began to move silently.

The urge to stay was almost overwhelming, but DeBryn firmed his self-discipline. The sooner he had silence, the sooner Morse would fall back to sleep and could delay facing the day, and DeBryn gathered his effects and, pausing only to twitch the curtains closed, left.

The drive home was accomplished in a bleary haze, but after a shower and coffee DeBryn felt more like himself, and arrived at the hospital only slightly later than his usual time. It would be untrue to say he had forgotten the reason behind Morse’s despair last night. But it had been pushed to the back of his mind, enough that he had a jolt of surprised recollection when he saw ‘Rosalind Stromming’ when perusing the admissions log of the previous night. Glancing at the timestamp, he noted she had been admitted just a quarter of an hour after he had left with Morse. Thank God he had been spared that, at least.

All morning DeBryn found himself distracted. The memory of Morse’s fingers curled tightly around his, the press of his face against DeBryn’s hip, the soft laxness of his body when he had finally succumbed to sleep... no clothing had been removed, but in its own way it felt more intimate than their previous encounter.

When Thursday arrived mid-afternoon to collect the pathologist’s report on Mrs Stromming, DeBryn handed it over with his usual crispness before allowing himself to remark on the conspicuously empty space at Thursday’s side. ‘No Morse?’

Thursday twitched slightly. ‘No. The lad’s gone.’

DeBryn blinked. ‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘Back to Carshall Newtown.’ Thursday arched an eyebrow at him. ‘He was only ever here on secondment. I thought you knew.’

‘I– Yes, I did.’ DeBryn looked away. ‘I thought he might at least stay to see the case tied up, though.’

Thursday sighed, suddenly sounding every one of his years. ‘Not this case. Apparently he thought very highly of Mrs Stromming.’

 _She saved my life._ DeBryn remembered Morse’s white-knuckled fingers, the words tearing themselves from his throat. _She saved my life, and I brought her death._ There was a story there, certainly. DeBryn supposed he would never hear it now.

‘It’s all just paperwork from this point.’ Thursday scratched his jaw. ‘Thought it would be kinder to spare him.’

‘Undoubtedly it was,’ DeBryn said, lost in the memory of Morse’s face, the way he had let the tears slide unchecked down his cheeks.

‘Is there anything else, Doctor?’

DeBryn lifted his eyes to find Thursday watching him. His eyes were slightly narrowed, and DeBryn forced himself to shrug, hoping he looked uninterested. The man was no fool, and small wonder his instincts were pricked; Home Office pathologists did not go about expressing concern over detective constables.

‘Nothing further, Inspector.’ DeBryn turned away, busying himself tidying some papers already in perfect order. ‘I had been thinking of asking the cleaners to pay extra attention to the floor, if he planned to grace it with his presence again. But I’m sure they’ll be just as pleased to be spared the extra work.’

Thursday’s only acknowledgement was a half-amused grunt before he took his leave, and DeBryn blew out a nervous breath. The inspector was a decent man, but the law was still the law.

\----------

Life returned more or less to normal after the Stromming case. The world continued to turn, the flowers in DeBryn’s garden bloomed and faded, and the summer sunsets began to arrive earlier each evening, balmy after the day’s heat but hinting at the winter to come.

In DeBryn’s own little domain there was little to differentiate one day from the next. Bodies came and went, and there was a steady supply of police officers – some uniformed, some not – passing through the doors in their various states of grimness, nervousness, or frustration. All dependent on how their case was progressing, their familiarity with the mortuary, and what tales they had been told by older colleagues – DeBryn was well aware of the pathologist’s status as the subject of morbid jokes in the station. Not that he minded; given his proclivities, he was happy enough that morbid jokes were the only sort.

Yet in the wake of Morse’s departure DeBryn found himself changed. Restless, even. Perhaps his low spirits needed a change of scene; after all, not even he could be constantly immune to the pressures of his work and the Stromming case had been a sorry affair, with little justice to be found at the end of it and three lives lost because of a man’s fancy for a pretty girl.

After making the necessary arrangements, DeBryn submitted a request for a few days off and went north, to the Lake District, taking his rods and books and some expensive Scotch. But it left him entirely too much time to think; angling was the perfect hobby for introspection, but rather a bad choice when a surfeit of introspection was the problem. And sitting around in the evenings reading Housman was hardly better.

On his return, DeBryn paid his first visit to Godstow since the end of the Stromming case. He had preferred to take care of his needs by himself, falling back on his memory of sharp blue eyes and a soft mouth, but he certainly had no intention of remaining celibate for the rest of his life and there was only so long that would suffice.

After a day where DeBryn had torn a strip off Thursday’s new sergeant – Jakes, as the man had introduced himself, a sardonic arch to his brows – who had rung to chivvy along a toxicology report, DeBryn watched the evening slip away until the clock hands showed ten o’clock and then set out, a particular destination in mind.

On some level DeBryn was half-expecting to see Morse again, even as he chided himself for foolishness – the distance from Carshall Newtown being what it was – and hoped devoutly that the chap had taken DeBryn’s warning to heart and made other arrangements. Yet he was irrationally disappointed when, waiting in the block and hearing footsteps outside, the man who entered a moment later was stocky instead of lithe, and whose hair was dark and threaded with silver rather than messy and bright as a flame.

But beggars scratching for crumbs at the banquet of human affection could hardly be choosers, and DeBryn accepted the fellow’s invitation. It was pleasant enough, in its way. Another hand on him was arousing enough that he had no trouble finishing, albeit with his face pressed to the fellow’s shoulder and filthy, half-formed fantasies of a pale throat and hands on his cock that were narrow and sure, rather than broad and rough.

It was as it should be. Men of his sort weren’t destined for grand passions. At least not ones that ended happily; DeBryn had read enough Auden and Tennyson to know what he could expect. And he had made his peace with the situation; he even had occasional moments where he looked around and thought this was a life with which he could be content. Even, just possibly, happy.

\----------

It was a day like any other when the call came through. The leaves had started to turn, illuminating Oxford in a last glorious burst of autumn colour before the winter ahead, and there was a nip to the air that had DeBryn rubbing warmth back into his fingers as he arrived in the morgue and found the telephone already shrilling.

‘DeBryn speaking.’

‘Doctor, it’s Inspector Thursday here. Ringing for the results on McNeill; are they ready?’

‘More or less.’ DeBryn tucked the phone between his shoulder and his ear, pulling the relevant file towards him. ‘It’ll take me a bit of time to finish up, but you can collect them any time from ten onwards.’

‘Excellent, I’ll send Jakes along.’

DeBryn was about to say goodbye and hang up, but something in Thursday’s tone stopped him. ‘Is there anything else?’

‘Funny you should ask,’ Thursday grunted. ‘As it happens we’ve got a new lad starting next week. You might be seeing him around.’

 _Another one?_ rose to DeBryn’s lips, but he had more sense than to voice it. Even he – tucked away down in the morgue as he was – had heard about Thursday’s recent house-cleaning at the station before the new Chief Superintendent’s arrival.

‘Thank you for the information,’ DeBryn said instead, glancing idly at his watch, ‘I daresay he’ll find his way down here soon enough.’

‘I daresay.’ Thursday’s tone was dry, almost amused. ‘But you might want to clean the floor before he does.’

DeBryn’s breath caught, the scratches and shine of the morgue’s stainless steel bench leaping into sharp focus as a giddy fluttering erupted somewhere under his ribs. ‘I see.’

‘Quite. Goodbye, DeBryn. Jakes will be along after ten.’

Mechanically, DeBryn returned the greeting and hung up, his heart suddenly racing. So Morse was transferring to Oxford, was he?

Well, he was free to do as he pleased, and it was clear to see he was wasted out at Carshall Newtown. But DeBryn found himself humming as he finished up the McNeill report and set out the necessary equipment for the afternoon’s post-mortem, and when Jakes arrived DeBryn was subjected to a thorough scrutiny before he realised he was smiling with unaccustomed benevolence at the man.

Perhaps Jakes would ascribe it to the weather. DeBryn glanced out of the window, noting the blue sky, the sunshine that had burned off the early morning’s chill, as though Oxford was trying to give them one last day of summer. Perhaps he would treat himself to lunch at the Miller’s Arms, down by the river, and a half-hour with the well-thumbed volume of Rilke he kept in his office. An extravagance, but why not.

‘Awake, little ones, and fill the cup, ‘ere life’s liquor in its cup be dry,’ he murmured, plucking his jacket from its hook and leaving briskly, letting the morgue’s door swing jauntily to and fro behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set around the events of the series 1 pilot, 'Endeavour'.
> 
>  **Warnings:** mild, brief description of blood and post-mortem procedure.
> 
> An update before the UK Bank Holiday weekend - hope you all have a lovely one.
> 
> As per previous chapter, not beta-read; please let me know of any errors, and constructive criticism is always welcomed.


	3. Chapter 3

The instant Morse entered the house, DeBryn knew. Not by the pricking of his thumbs, or any sentimental notion of a kindred soul calling to its twin, but for the far more prosaic reason that Morse was perhaps the only detective able to start a row barely thirty seconds after arriving at a crime scene.

‘Well now,’ DeBryn murmured to Margaret Bell, in the absence of any more appreciative audience, ‘who do you suppose we have here.’

Inwardly his heart pounded, his mouth dry. The last time he saw Morse the man had been a bundle of sharp edges and pain held together by willpower alone, more than DeBryn would have supposed could be contained in his slim frame.

‘Last night... well, a few months ago, if one is being precise,’ DeBryn went on, confiding to the girl, ‘for a whole night, the unpredictable lay in my arms, in a tender and unquiet rest.’

Presumably Morse was back to something approaching his usual self, however, if he was feisty enough to start bickering with Strange before he had even shut the front door.

‘The sawbones is here, if you wanted a word.’

Strange’s voice carried easily up the stairs, and DeBryn huffed softly to himself. ‘ _Doctor_ Sawbones, if you please.’

But the next instant twin footsteps approached, hesitating at the doorway, and DeBryn couldn’t resist. ‘It’s alright, you can look. Nothing here to frighten the horses, no blood.’

Which was why, when DeBryn raised his head to greet DC Morse for the first time since his return, it was to find Morse scowling at him, his hands shoved in his pockets and brows lowered thunderously.

‘My extensively educated medical guess would be a heart attack,’ DeBryn went on, irrationally cheered at the sight of Morse’s glare.

 _And hello to you too,_ he added silently, _please don’t trouble yourself wasting time on a greeting, will you. After all, I only watched over you while you slept, the last time we saw each other, and paid for it with a neck ache that lasted two days._

But that was hardly fair, with Strange beside him and watching them both; DeBryn caught Morse’s slanted sideways look and allowed privately that perhaps he wasn’t quite as unaware of DeBryn as he was trying to appear, standing there half-out of the room as though he wanted to bolt down the stairs and away.

His posture gave DeBryn an excellent opportunity to examine his profile: every bit as fetching as he remembered, with perhaps a few more freckles dusted across nose and cheekbones and lighter tones in his hair, as though he had been spending time out of doors. Although his clothes... A detective constable’s salary presumably wasn’t much, and Morse was young and slim enough to get away with wearing cheap, ill-fitting suits, but he could at least have run an iron over his shirt.

DeBryn listened to him going through the girl’s belongings with silent approval: whatever they had had him doing out at Carshall Newtown, it hadn’t blunted his sharp mind. Or – as Morse snapped at Strange over the Beaufort scarf – taken the edge off his tongue.

‘A French letter. Unused,’ Strange said, watching Morse go through the girl’s handbag.

‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast,’ DeBryn murmured absently, making a final note of the girl’s medication. ‘Man never is, but always to be, blessed.’

The quotation rose to his lips as naturally as breathing, and it was only after he completed it and glanced up to see Morse bending over to examine something on the floor, his trousers pulled tight across his attractive arse, that it belatedly struck DeBryn that a different quote may have been wiser.

Thank God Strange had turned away to examine something on the other side of the room, for Morse straightened up and gave DeBryn such a glare that DeBryn nipped his lip against a sudden wild urge to laugh.

Instead he managed, ‘Keep me posted on the GP, Morse,’ with something approaching his usual gravity, before snapping his notebook shut. Nothing more to be done here; best scarper before he embarrassed himself further, and he gathered up his belongings and made a swift departure.

Outside, DeBryn turned his face up to the autumn sunshine. He had always liked the season. Most people preferred spring or summer – the poets almost famously so – but he himself was fond of the tang of autumn. The crisp mornings, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the influx of students breathing youth and life into the old colleges. The sense of things beginning again, after the lethargy and dog-days of summer.

As DeBryn made his way to the car and stowed his case carefully on the back seat, he reflected that he now had another reason to add to his list, in the serendipitous things it did for the colouring of a certain detective.

\----------

 _Keep me posted on the GP,_ DeBryn had said. He usually insisted on his reports being delivered in person, however this time he had left the method of said update to Morse’s discretion. Although DeBryn was almost sure Morse wouldn’t even notice the exception that was made for him; even on the strength of their fledgling acquaintance, DeBryn already suspected such niceties would sail over Morse’s head.

Yet Morse’s choice would tell DeBryn something of his state of mind and how he viewed DeBryn, and so DeBryn went about his tasks in the mortuary that afternoon with an ear cocked for the telephone, all the while hoping to hear a swift footstep in the corridor outside.

The only way he hadn’t been prepared to see Morse, however, was back in the toilet block at Godstow, accompanied by several of Oxford City’s finest.

It was bad enough when DeBryn got the call-out that directed him north-west of Oxford, his heart sinking when he realised where the directions led. Not simply to a spot by the river, not to the drowning he had hoped for. Instead to a small brick building that DeBryn knew, oh, very well indeed.

No time to lose, and with a bit of effort and efficiency he had all but completed his examination by the time Thursday arrived, with Jakes and Morse trailing after him. Thursday’s step was unmistakeable, and as DeBryn glanced up he saw Morse’s face blanch. A low groan of horror escaped him, and he immediately retreated to the other side of the partition, leaning heavily against it. Thursday spared him a brief glance, presumably taking Morse’s actions for his usual squeamishness; DeBryn had never imagined he would be grateful for it, but it was certainly easier to do this if he didn’t have to look at Morse, standing so nearly in the very spot DeBryn had first encountered him, fey and nervous and entirely beautiful.

‘Killed sometime between nine and midnight. Single shot; weapon discharged from over by the door. Bullet entered the skull an inch above the left point of the supra-orbital ridge, and went on its merry way to exit at about the median point of the left parietal occipital suture line, and end up... Hey, as it were, presto.’

He had always retreated into theatre when nervous, his family had teased him repeatedly for it. But as long as he was being sufficiently scientific and incomprehensible then Thursday hopefully wouldn’t notice DeBryn’s nerves, or his newest officer unable to look at the scene or the pathologist but instead skulking around the corner. With – DeBryn noticed – his hands bunched nervously at his sides.

‘Very well,’ Thursday said at last. ‘Thank you, Doctor. Let me know when you’re doing the post-mortem, and we’ll be along.’

With that he left, Jakes shadowing him, and DeBryn crouched by the body once more, until a shift in the air made him look up. Morse had emerged from behind his partition to watch DeBryn. In the half-light his eyes were shadowed, unreadable; he opened his mouth as though to speak, shoving his hands in his pockets, and DeBryn all but held his breath. He raised his eyebrows, torn between wanting to encourage Morse and wanting him to hold his tongue, with his superior not quite out of earshot, and Morse thinned his lips.

DeBryn sighed. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask: _Have you been back here? Have you found somewhere else? You are being_ careful _, are you not?_

And later, after rather a lot of Dutch courage: _Does it ever cross your mind? Do you remember it? Do you think about my hands as much as I think about your mouth? Have you the slightest interest in repeating the exercise?_

But with half the force standing outside it was at best unwise and at worst suicidal, and DeBryn merely nodded slightly. ‘Detective Constable.’

The subtle reminder worked. ‘Doctor.’

With no more than that he left, and DeBryn stood, sighing heavily. Distance, that was what he needed. This one had hit a little too close to home, that was all. With a couple of days and some time he would be right as rain but for now...

DeBryn looked around as though seeing it all anew. The stained porcelain and chipped paintwork – previously things to be determinedly ignored when seeking an encounter – now stood out indelibly. Was this to be his life? A series of anonymous sessions in a disgusting location, until he perhaps ended up like this poor sod?

Stripping off his gloves, DeBryn pushed his glasses up and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing again. There had to be more than this.

\----------

‘Doctor.’

DeBryn, halfway along the corridor to the dark green doors of the morgue, paused at the sound of a familiar voice. He turned. ‘Morse.’

He watched Morse approach, loping easily down the corridor, hands shoved in pockets and head down, and DeBryn took the opportunity to give him a quick once-over. No illusion, he had lost weight in the intervening time back at Carshall Newtown. Which reduced the likelihood of him having any sort of partner – of either sex – who would feed him up, or even family living nearby who would at least ensure he got a decent meal every now and then.

Morse lifted his eyes and DeBryn quickly shifted his gaze to the far end of the corridor. It wouldn’t do for Morse to catch him looking, never mind that his interest was professional and not personal. Mostly professional, leastways.

As Morse drew level he stopped, glancing back over his shoulder down the corridor. ‘Doctor.’

‘Morse.’ DeBryn repeated. And then, when Morse only stood there mutely, shifting his weight: ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

He wore a moss-coloured tie, that shifted his eyes towards the green end of their spectrum, and DeBryn looked into them with carefully studied neutrality as Morse raised his eyebrows. ‘Inspector Thursday said you needed to see me.’

‘Ah.’ What DeBryn had actually said to the Inspector was that he needed to speak with Morse; Lord knew he wasn’t going to force the chap down here if he found the place – and DeBryn’s company – so distasteful. But perhaps, in his own way, Thursday was trying to desensitise him. ‘Yes, I do.’

DeBryn stood back, gesturing to the doors. ‘After you.’

Instead of moving forwards, Morse ducked his head, tugging lightly at his ear. DeBryn was about to make a tart comment of needing to be inside the morgue to reference the file contained therein, but something about Morse’s posture stopped him.

He was worrying lightly at his lip, rubbing at his nape and ruffling his hair; he shifted his feet and DeBryn frowned. This looked like more than simple reluctance to enter the morgue, in fact it looked almost like nerves.

‘Morse?’ Morse lifted his gaze from his shoes, and DeBryn looked at him over the tops of his glasses. ‘You alright?’

‘Yes. Yes, fine.’ Morse ducked his head again, but DeBryn had patience that rivalled that of the dead, and he merely folded his arms and waited while Morse bit his lip and swallowed. ‘Just...’

‘Mmm?’

‘Gave me a bit of a turn, the other day,’ Morse said at last, in what DeBryn suspected was a tremendous understatement for the stomach-churning horror he himself had felt at seeing two facets of his world – that he had striven so hard to separate – brought into sharp proximity.

‘Well, yes,’ DeBryn said carefully, feeling his way forward through the conversation. ‘Head wounds are rather among the messier forms of expiration.’

‘No, I–’ Morse twitched impatiently before stepping closer, lowering his voice. ‘Well, yes, but that’s... not what I meant.’

Slowly, DeBryn exhaled.

‘I know what you meant.’ He lowered his voice to match Morse’s, ducking his head slightly. Anyone passing the end of the corridor and glimpsing them would know them exactly the fellow conspirators they were. ‘Don’t tell me you were unaware such activities carry a concurrent amount of, shall we say, risk.’

‘Of being shot in the head?’ Morse’s voice slid slightly higher, but thankfully no louder.

‘Of violence.’ DeBryn took off his glasses and fished out his handkerchief, feeling older than his years. On the other side of those green doors they would be doctor and detective but here, in this quiet spot where normal time and rules were suspended, they were simply two men sharing the same burden. ‘There’s a risk of violence, and danger, and all sorts of unsavoury outcomes. You know that. Or you should do, at any rate. Naivety isn’t a luxury our sort can afford.’

Morse shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. ‘No, I know that.’

‘Good.’ DeBryn slid his glasses back onto his nose, and Morse’s face swam into focus. He looked tired and faintly sad, the lines at his mouth drawn deeply.

What was the fellow doing for company these days? But as soon as the thought arose DeBryn quashed it ruthlessly.

‘The heart has its reasons, as they say, of which reason knows nothing.’ DeBryn made a resigned face. ‘And the same applies to other organs likewise. But all the same. Discretion, Morse.’

This was apparently too much, for Morse baulked. ‘I know.’ He lifted his chin, looking down his long nose at DeBryn, frowning impatiently. ‘I wasn’t asking for advice.’

‘Well, there you are.’ DeBryn tilted his head towards the morgue doors. ‘Shall we?’

Morse grimaced slightly. ‘You can’t tell me out here?’

DeBryn rolled his eyes and made for the doors, shouldering one open and not bothering to hold it; Morse could either catch it or let it slam in his face as he chose. After all the moment had passed, and Home Office pathologists did not fret over the delicate sensitivities of new constables. DeBryn picked up the file, taking a moment with his back to Morse to pull his professional distance back over himself.

He turned to find Morse examining the autopsy table with a deeply mistrustful air, eyeing the drainage channels with a queasy look.

‘Are you alright?’ DeBryn asked briskly. Thursday might be able to scoop this fellow up as though he weight nothing but DeBryn certainly couldn’t; if he fainted again it would be the floor for him until he came around.

A faint pink stained Morse’s cheeks, and he set his jaw mulishly. ‘Yes.’

‘You’re not going to–’ Really, Morse did make it too easy; DeBryn watched the tips of his ears redden and his resolutions of distance slipped. He assumed his gravest air. ‘Would you like me to fetch you a glass of water–’

‘I’d prefer the point, if it’s all the same to you.’

But even as he bristled up in annoyance, amusement pulled at the corners of Morse’s mouth, curling them slowly upwards at the gentle teasing, and DeBryn looked quickly down at the paperwork to hide his own answering smile. Perhaps the professional distance had narrowed today, by just a few inches.

\----------

The atrium of Oxford’s courthouse was always busy, and today was no exception. However, rather than being annoyed by it as was his wont, this afternoon DeBryn relished the chance to fade into the background and disappear among the crowd. He found a quiet corner and stepped into it gratefully, fidgeting with his starched shirt cuffs and tugging at his too-tight collar.

Testifying in court was always such a nuisance. A requirement of the job, of course, nothing to be done about it save thank his stars that such occasions were rare. But even so. One of the advantages of his speciality was that it required little in the way of social skills, which suited him perfectly; he had accepted long ago that he would always be more at ease conversing with the dead than the living.

He hitched his sleeve up to check his watch. Five o’clock. Hardly worth returning to the mortuary. And yet there were the files tucked in his briefcase that needed to go back, and he was curious as to whether the MacKenzie bloodwork results were back. Not to mention that, after an uncomfortable afternoon in a stuffy court, the idea of a quiet hour or two with his sleeves rolled up, jacket discarded, getting stuck into some real work in the cool peace of the morgue... It held an intense appeal.

Decided, DeBryn eyed the passing crowds, readying himself to plunge back into them, when a familiar figure caught his eye: the rather substantial form of PC Strange. DeBryn was hardly one to talk, he was all too aware that more time spent in bookish rather than outdoor pursuits had left him a long way from an Adonis. But almost as soon as he recognised Strange’s broad shoulders, he spotted a familiar – rather more angular – figure at his side, crowned with bright hair, and DeBryn groaned under his breath.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Oxford’s world was a small one, and the criminology world verging on tiny; it was only a wonder that a random meeting hadn’t happened before now. DeBryn looked away; it wouldn’t do for Morse to spot him and think DeBryn was seeking him out, or any such nonsense.

Should he leave now, quickly, before they saw him? Perhaps better to wait until they had passed and he could make his own leisurely way, despite the ridiculous figure he cut skulking in a corner like a thief.

‘Doctor!’ Strange’s voice carried easily across the general chatter and, cursing quietly, DeBryn turned to see Strange staring at him.

‘He who hesitates,’ DeBryn muttered, _sotto voce_ , but forced himself to nod and smile in reply, his heart sinking in dismay when Strange – instead of returning the acknowledgement and leaving – changed course to make his way over, towing Morse in his wake.

DeBryn glanced away for a moment, composing his face into something approximating courtesy rather than irritation, and turned.

‘Hello, Doctor.’ Strange was beaming all over his broad face.

‘Strange.’ DeBryn nodded to him and flicked a glance at Morse, hanging back and inspecting a point somewhere over DeBryn’s left shoulder with great interest. ‘Morse.’

‘Well, this is a surprise,’ Strange said, tilting his head to one side. ‘What are you doing here?’

DeBryn looked closely to see if he was serious. Apparently he was. ‘Much as I prefer my usual haunts, occasionally the merry men of the Oxford City Police deem it fit to winkle me out and put me on stand.’ Strange’s smile faltered slightly. ‘Testifying, Constable.’

‘Oh I see. Yes.’ Strange was so obviously proud of something, fluffed up with all the self-importance of a sombrely dressed robin. DeBryn glanced him over, noting the pressed uniform, the hair flattened with water; even the buttons on his uniform had been buffed to a shine and he relented. It would have been cruel to deny him the chance.

‘And yourself, Constable?’

‘Just tying up a small matter,’ Strange said, trying so hard to sound off-hand DeBryn almost smiled. He rocked onto the balls of his feet. ‘That chap going around pretending to read the gas meters. I, er. I nabbed him a few days ago. Just came down to make sure it all went smoothly.’

That explained the air of pride. If his chest puffed out any further he would topple over.

‘Indeed,’ DeBryn said gravely. ‘One wonders how they would have coped without your presence.’

This sailed over Strange’s head, but DeBryn noted a quiver in Morse’s lips that looked suspiciously like amusement.

‘So.’ For the first time, Strange seemed to notice the corner DeBryn had retreated to. He glanced around. ‘Are you waiting on someone?’

Briefly, DeBryn considered lying. Yet as he opened his mouth he caught a pair of sharp blue eyes watching, assessing him from under lowered brows, and reflected that any such lie would only get past half of his audience.

‘No, actually,’ he admitted. ‘Just finished.’

‘Ah right. Well then, allow me.’ Strange turned and made for the entrance, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, and DeBryn barely stopped himself rolling his eyes. Let the lad enjoy his position while he could; doubtless the shine would wear off quickly enough.

‘Morse.’ DeBryn dipped his head briefly as they fell in behind Strange. The chap could certainly clear a path, there was that to be said for him.

‘DeBryn.’

What was a detective – more to the point, Thursday’s bagman – doing here; surely this was rather below his abilities. Looking at the tense line of Morse’s shoulders under his shapeless grey mackintosh, there was a story in this if DeBryn was any judge.

On the steps outside Strange stopped and turned. ‘Well, I’m off back to the nick.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets, a boyish grin cracking through the air of importance, and turned to Morse. ‘It’s clocking-off time, matey, and some of the lads said they’d stand us a few rounds down at the Lamb and Flag. You in?’

Morse’s shoulders twitched, and he looked away. ‘Oh. Er, no, not tonight.’

Strange’s face fell slightly. It was almost amusing, he was so puppyishly eager to be friends with Morse, and DeBryn wondered that the chap – sharp as he was – couldn’t see it.

Perhaps he could, though, for he softened his refusal a moment later with a brief smile. ‘Thanks, though. Maybe next time.’

‘I’ll hold you to that.’

DeBryn fished in his pocket for his car keys, keen to get moving, and the gesture drew Strange’s gaze. He shuffled his feet. ‘Doctor? You’re, ah. Welcome to join us, if you want to stop by?’

For an evening of bluff masculine humour, each trying to outdo the last with tales of daring captures and, once the ale had been flowing, sexual conquests.

‘Mmm, thank you, Constable, but I’ve other plans.’

‘Oh right then.’ Strange mostly succeeded in hiding his relief, while Morse stood silent as the statue of Justice on the roof, although unfortunately far more sharp-eyed.

‘Goodbye then, Doctor. Morse?’ Strange jingled the car keys in his palm. ‘Run you back?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Morse met Strange’s eyes, gave another of his odd half-smiles. ‘I fancy a walk.’

‘Alright then.’ Strange clapped Morse on the shoulder. ‘See you Monday.’

Once he was out of earshot, DeBryn arched an eyebrow at Morse. ‘“Fancy a walk”?’

Morse’s square chin jutted. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, save that I’ve yet to see you willingly walk anywhere if there’s a vague chance of a lift in the offing. Or even if there isn’t.’

Morse frowned, and DeBryn watched him try and fail to find a rebuttal. ‘I want to... clear my head.’

Certainly he looked like a man who needed to settle himself. Morse was always a study in motion stilled: with his constant fidgeting and shifting he seemed perennially half-poised to dash off, chasing down another wildly intuitive leap. But there was something else about him today, a restless tension so clearly thrumming just below the surface, and DeBryn watched for a long moment, watched his gaze drift out over the crowd and his mouth pull tight in dissatisfaction.

When Morse looked back at him DeBryn quickly looked away. It certainly wasn’t any of his business.

‘Well, carry on, then.’ DeBryn curled his fingers around his own car keys, impatient to be gone. ‘Until the next time.’

‘I don’t suppose you. Um. You want.’ Morse bit his lip, silencing himself.

DeBryn stilled, tightening his grip around the jagged edges of his keys. ‘Yes?’

‘Oh... nothing.’ Morse darted a glance at him, with something lurking at the back of his eyes that DeBryn was unable to decipher. ‘Have you any plans this evening?’

‘I most certainly do.’ DeBryn sighed, already contemplating them, and unbent enough to add: ‘I have a bottle of fine Scotch, an unread copy of “Summoned by Bells”, and I rather fancy the evenings are now sufficiently chilly to warrant a proper log fire.’

At this Morse smiled, his face softening into something almost wistful. ‘While outside the marbled clouds go scudding by the many-steepled Oxford sky?’

DeBryn’s stomach fluttered, and he murmured, suddenly shy: ‘Something like that.’

With that expression – and quoting poetry – Morse looked younger, more approachable, with his eyes crinkling slightly and his hair gleaming copper in the late afternoon sunshine. Less like Morse and more like Thomas, in fact, and DeBryn looked away. It was always at the most inconvenient times he was reminded of the man’s attractiveness; DeBryn knew himself well enough to know he would always have a weakness for a clever and well-read mind, but no need to broadcast it quite so obviously.

‘Goodbye, then,’ he said, in lieu of breaking a self-imposed rule by asking after Morse’s own plans or something even more foolish like inviting him for a drink.

‘Goodbye.’ Morse cocked his head. ‘Enjoy your evening. Sounds perfect.’

It would be more perfect with company, but DeBryn held his tongue and merely gave a brief nod before he left, refusing to look back and see whether the slim figure standing on the steps of the courthouse was watching.

\----------

After the third time he lost his concentration during the second chapter, DeBryn set down his glass and sighed. The Scotch was excellent, Betjeman as engaging as usual, and the roaring fire heating his toes was most satisfactory. Yet the words on the page danced before his eyes, their meaning slithering out of his grasp like eels. He seemed to have caught whatever restless longing had plagued Morse earlier, like a tolling bell that set its neighbour softly chiming in sympathy, and DeBryn set the book aside with an impatient gesture and rose to pour himself another measure.

Lord knew what Morse was doing this evening. DeBryn sat back down and sipped at his Scotch meditatively, staring into the heart of the flames. In any other man – Sergeant Jakes, for example – DeBryn would have diagnosed a desire to be out on the prowl in the local clubs for female company, an inability to be content with solitude for the evening. Yet he couldn’t see Morse doing that, somehow. Didn’t seem the type.

DeBryn rested the weight of the glass tumbler on the arm of the chair and picked up his book determinedly, listening to the comforting crackle and hiss of the hire, the soothing tick of the clock, and turning back to the start of the chapter.

Unless...

Lowering the book to his lap, DeBryn bit his lip as a thought stirred. No, he wouldn’t. It was a ridiculous notion: monumentally impolitic, to say nothing of the risk, and the chances of discovery were far too high given recent events. Discovery that would lead at best to ignominious disgrace and expulsion, and at worst... he didn’t care to contemplate.

He groaned softly. No, surely not. Their brief acquaintance had already revealed that Morse lacked the most rudimentary concepts of self-preservation, but even he must see what an appalling, dreadful idea it was. He wouldn’t have. And yet... 

‘Well of course he has,’ DeBryn said. Almost snapped, his voice too loud in the silent room. ‘It’s a bloody stupid idea, that’s almost certain to end in disaster. Which means of course that’s what he’s gone and done.’

Once the knowledge was there DeBryn could no more ignore it than he could walk past a man with a broken leg, and he shut his book and thumped it down on the arm of his chair, rather harder than the volume deserved. He snatched up his car keys, pulling on boots and overcoat in a high temper, and all but slammed the front door behind him when he left. 

The drive took only a matter of minutes, DeBryn’s temper keeping his foot heavy on the accelerator, spending the whole journey muttering imprecations and hoping he was wrong. He wasn’t, though. He knew it, in his bones, the way he sometimes knew even before opening up a body that all wasn’t quite right, and he almost stormed into the toilet block at Godstow and was thoroughly unsurprised to find Morse leaning against the wall, back very firmly turned to the section where the lingering stain from Dr Cartwright’s death was faintly visible, and a curious mix of nerves and defiance on his face.

A quick glance showed that the block was otherwise empty, and DeBryn muttered, annoyance and disbelief mingling in his voice: ‘Morse.’

‘DeBryn.’ Morse straightened up out of his slouch, and took a step forwards. His eyes flickered over him. ‘Betjeman lost his appeal?’

The anger that had fuelled DeBryn’s drive out there blossomed into full-bore fury.

‘No,’ he snapped, ‘Betjeman has most certainly not lost his appeal. In fact I left a perfectly good fire, a glass of excellent Scotch, and a very engaging book to come out here and ask you precisely what in hell you think you’re doing?’

Throughout DeBryn’s speech Morse had been drawing closer, but at this he stopped short, his brows lifting slightly. ‘What _I_ think I’m doing?’

He had taken his tie off, DeBryn noticed absently, the long column of his throat and his suprasternal notch framed perfectly by his open collar. But the majority of his attention was absorbed by his searing rage. ‘Yes! Or perhaps you’ve forgotten last week’s events?’

Morse’s mouth twisted sardonically. ‘You think I might get shot while dropping off a packet of amphetamines?’

‘I think,’ DeBryn hissed, almost overcome with the urge to drag Morse outside by the scruff of his neck, ‘that this location is now a known congregating spot for homosexuals. Known to the police and – thanks to the Oxford Mail – now also known to every lunatic in a ten-mile radius who owns a cricket bat and fancies himself God’s appointed scourge.’

DeBryn stopped, breathing hard, and when Morse only shrugged his fists bunched.

‘I can take care of myself,’ Morse said, folding his arms and drawing himself up to his full height to look down his long nose at DeBryn. ‘And the police don’t care about this place – they knew about it already.’

‘Yes.’ DeBryn’s hand fairly itched with the desire to cuff Morse around the back of the head. To command him to use that brain of his and think. ‘But do you not think a rather public murder of a respected GP might mean that – at least temporarily – the constabulary are obliged to stop turning a blind eye and take a rather more active interest?’

Finally Morse’s expression flickered, the momentary uncertainty of a cat who had misstepped and felt the ground shift beneath it. It lasted only an instant, but DeBryn pressed, ‘Not to mention that you are a serving police officer, for God’s sake, you can’t–’ He broke off, drawing a deep breath. ‘You don’t have the same freedom as a don, or even a doctor. You can’t afford even the slightest breath of suspicion.’

‘It’s none of their business.’ Morse’s expression darkened mutinously. ‘No-one’s business what I do, or... or with whom, or–’

He cut off when DeBryn snorted. ‘Of course it’s not, but what difference do you imagine that makes? Policemen are still _men_ , Morse. If they get a hint of anything untoward, you’ll find yourself encountering problems.’

Morse’s chin was jutting forwards, his mouth thinning ominously, and DeBryn took a step forward and fisted his hands in Morse’s coat lapels. ‘Do I need to spell it out? You’ll find evidence for your cases will go missing. Inside information will find its way into the papers.’

A glance at Morse’s face showed him still looking argumentative and DeBryn shook him roughly, hating himself even as he continued: ‘One day you could be out on a call, and mysteriously find your back-up takes just that bit too long to arrive. What will you do then?’

All of Morse’s hostility fell away, his shock making him look painfully young. His arms unfolded, his hands dropping to his sides. ‘They wouldn’t.’

DeBryn shrugged, weary of the world and its imperfections. The evening air was cold, the toilet block stinking of old urine, and he suddenly longed for his armchair and the idealised Arthurian world of his poetry books. ‘It’s been done before.’

‘Not...’ Morse could hardly get the word out. ‘Not at–’ 

‘No, not at Cowley Road.’ DeBryn sighed, loosening his fingers from Morse’s lapels and smoothing them briefly. ‘At least, not to my knowledge. But elsewhere. One hears things; you know how it is.’

The look on Morse’s face made DeBryn abruptly, obscurely guilty. Disillusionment was an ugly business, but in Morse’s line of work naivety could get you killed; there could only be a handful of years between them, but just at that moment those years felt like decades.

‘Come on.’ DeBryn turned away, unable to look at Morse’s face. ‘Come away from here. I’ll give you a lift back to your digs.’

Thankfully Morse followed him without argument and the walk back to the car was accomplished in silence. Feeling rather like Orpheus, DeBryn didn’t look back for the short walk however he at least had the satisfaction of hearing the crunch of Morse’s footsteps on the dry leaves keeping pace with him.

The car still held some residual warmth from the outward drive, and DeBryn started the engine and turned on the heater, pretending not to notice Morse wedging his chilled hands between his knees. He had folded himself into the passenger seat with ill grace, his long legs sprawled, and DeBryn glanced covertly at him.

Dear God, the chap was beautiful, with that full mouth and that tangle of hair that just begged to be touched. If he wasn’t a police officer he could walk into any room and have his pick of fellows, of that DeBryn was sure.

‘Find another outlet,’ DeBryn said tersely, not looking at Morse as he fastened his seat belt. ‘Your only other option is to leave the police, although for what it’s worth I hope you won’t. Even with your unfortunate syncopal tendencies, the world needs more detectives like you.’

DeBryn twisted in his seat to look over his shoulder as he reversed back towards the Oxford road, and glimpsed the edge of Morse’s shy smile.

‘So if you’re determined to pursue both...’ DeBryn shrugged. ‘Find another outlet.’

The car’s headlamps sliced twin beams into the darkness ahead; DeBryn glanced over at his silent passenger but could only make out the barest details. The line of a cheekbone, the pale shape of his hand at his mouth as he chewed at a nail.

‘Where else is there?’

‘Well, nowhere in Oxfordshire,’ DeBryn retorted, unable to keep the tartness from his tone. ‘I imagine London is your safest bet.’

DeBryn caught a movement out of the corner of his eye as Morse’s head turned sharply. ‘London?’

‘Yes.’ Surely the fellow had read Wilde? ‘Invent a friend in town. Visit him a few times a year. You should find you’re able to remain sufficiently anonymous.’

Morse made a thoughtful noise, sitting back in his seat, and DeBryn rubbed his temple briefly, trying to concentrate on the road and not the sudden mental image of Morse in a seedy Soho bar, picking up an anonymous man and taking him back to an equally anonymous hotel for the night.

The car’s engine was the only noise for a few miles, before Morse stirred, clearing his throat slightly. ‘How do you. You know. Manage?’

DeBryn pursed his lips. ‘I get by, Morse. Thank you for your concern.’

He had too much pride to admit that occasions had been rather few and far between of late. Whatever wheels were turning in Morse’s brain, whatever plans he was trying to make for himself, there was no need for that information.

They were almost at the outskirts of Oxford – the road widening, and hedgerows giving way to manicured garden hedges – when Morse spoke again. ‘When I saw you, I thought you’d come for. You know.’

‘No.’ DeBryn slowed, squinting slightly as an oncoming car rushed past, headlamps blazing. ‘Just to point out that for such a clever chap, you can be a frightful idiot sometimes.’

Surprisingly, this drew no protest from the passenger seat.

‘The thing is, though...’ Morse shifted in his seat again, ‘London is rather a long way away. Are you sure there’s nowhere closer?’

‘This isn’t like making an appointment for an MOT, for God’s sake,’ DeBryn began, goaded into irritability, but the ghost-pressure of Morse’s hand settling on his thigh made him jump and stutter into silence, the car veering briefly into the centre of the road before DeBryn wrenched it back.

His heart was pounding, his palms sweaty on the smooth leather of the steering wheel, and he croaked: ‘Morse?’

‘DeBryn.’ The jolt had made Morse tighten his grip on DeBryn’s thigh, long fingers curling and digging in.

DeBryn swallowed convulsively, squeezing the wheel and focussing on the road before he ended up driving into a lamppost. ‘What are you doing?’

A sigh, from over to his left, and the faint shift of those fingers on his leg. Their touch had arousal already singing through his veins, his body recalling the sensation of those fingers on his bare skin, his cock. ‘I thought that was obvious.’

‘You... you...’ Reduced to monosyllables, how inarticulate, and DeBryn worked some saliva into his dry mouth and tried again. ‘You’re suggesting. That we...’

‘If you want.’

Morse’s hand hadn’t offered any more caresses, but he hadn’t removed it either, waiting patiently for DeBryn to decide.

‘What happened to never speaking of it again?’ DeBryn couldn’t help but ask, even as his cock twitched with interest, and he gritted his teeth at his own carelessness when Morse sighed and finally took his hand away.

‘It was just a thought.’

‘Morse.’ DeBryn struggled for the right words for a moment, all too conscious of blue eyes gleaming at him in the half-light. He had forgotten nothing of that previous encounter, all those weeks ago, and by this point his underwear was growing distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’m not... saying no.’

A rustle of fabric, and a sigh, and DeBryn glanced across to see Morse had sunk deeper into the passenger seat, his fingers beating a restless tattoo on his thigh. ‘Alright then.’

Nothing more was said. By unspoken accord DeBryn took the route back to his own house where privacy would be assured; this wasn’t the moment to ask after Morse’s new living arrangements. Somehow, despite a detective constable’s salary, he couldn’t see Morse as the sort of fellow to split digs with someone, but no matter when his own house would do perfectly well.

DeBryn had barely parked and turned the engine off before Morse was moving, out of the car and straight up to the front door without a trace of shyness, and DeBryn inhaled deeply before following.

At the front door he fumbled with his keys and nearly dropped them, acutely aware of the lanky figure hovering impatiently behind him, and once inside he shut the door and took a moment to collect himself.

He turned to find Morse looking about himself, paying particular attention to the watercolours hanging in the hallway – species of freshwater and marine fish – his tousled head tilted curiously to one side.

When Morse turned his head and met his gaze, DeBryn fell back on nervous formality. ‘May I take your coat?’

‘Thank you.’ Morse slipped out of his mackintosh and DeBryn took it and turned away to hang it up. He took the opportunity to slide his own coat off too, but as he loosened the buttons there was a soft step behind him and hands curling around the heavy collar, easing it off his shoulders and down his arms.

‘So,’ DeBryn said uselessly, as Morse pulled his coat away, dropped it onto a hook, and gripped DeBryn’s shoulders to turn him. Morse smoothed his palms over DeBryn’s shoulders and down his arms before leaning in to rub his cheek against the hair above DeBryn’s ear, nuzzling at him like a cat, and DeBryn gave him a few moments of it before cupping Morse’s jaw, heart pounding and hands trembling.

The first touch of lips made DeBryn catch his breath. Morse’s mouth was softer than he remembered, and DeBryn inhaled and caught a faint scent of cologne. Dear God, he had worn aftershave, had taken the time to groom himself before going out, as though one needed to for such a place, and DeBryn tilted his head and kissed him with slightly more pressure.

He seemed to like being kissed, and DeBryn pushed his slim frame up against the nearest wall and kissed him as though content to do little else. It was as much to indulge himself as for any pleasure to Morse – to be allowed to kiss that mouth, after watching it twist in disapproval, or lift unawares in a half-smile, or pinch tight with frustration – but when DeBryn drew back Morse was flushed.

‘Perhaps we might...’ Morse pushed DeBryn’s jacket open to run a hand along his side, seeming to lose his train of thought.

DeBryn leaned in to capture his mouth in another brief kiss. ‘Yes?’ He slid his fingers up from Morse’s nape, burying them in thick, soft hair, and watched Morse’s eyes flutter as his throat worked. ‘Anything you want.’

A rash promise, but in that moment DeBryn meant it whole-heartedly; there was nothing the chap couldn’t have, if it kept him looking at DeBryn exactly like that.

‘Upstairs,’ Morse murmured, dropping his head to kiss DeBryn again, once, and then again. ‘Your bedroom. Shall we?’

‘Of course.’ How foolish of DeBryn not to have thought of that. Of course the chap would want to do it in a bed, as people usually did, rather than up against a wall as DeBryn was more accustomed to. ‘The stairs are just there.’

‘Mmm.’ But Morse ducked forward for another kiss, seeming disinclined to move, and only broke away when DeBryn snaked a hand down between their bodies to cup his arousal through his trousers. Morse inhaled sharply as DeBryn measured his length with his fingertips, and DeBryn pulled his mouth away to repeat: ‘Come on. Upstairs.’

He followed it with a gentle bite to Morse’s jaw, and this time Morse moved, pushing himself away from the wall, although not before catching DeBryn’s mouth in another of those hungry kisses.

It wasn’t until halfway up the stairs that DeBryn realised one of the advantages of being a good host and allowing your guests to precede you, and he watched the muscles in Morse’s arse shift as he climbed.

‘Which way?’ At the top of the stairs Morse turned; DeBryn quickly lifted his eyes but from the look he received, he hadn’t been quite fast enough.

He nodded towards the master bedroom. ‘That one.’

Inside, Morse flicked on the main light and almost immediately began to shrug his jacket off. DeBryn paused for a moment to switch on the small reading lamp by the side of the bed and turn the overhead one off; he had certainly no objection to admiring his guest in full light, but he himself was unlikely to stand up favourably under it.

Even as he shrugged his jacket off and slung it carelessly over a chair back, Morse’s head was turning, taking in all the small details of a bachelor life. The dark, solid bedroom furniture, the twin nightstands – one empty, the other piled with books and a half-full water glass – and the large double bed DeBryn had permitted himself as a luxury when furnishing the house. The bed that DeBryn steered Morse gently towards, resting his hands on Morse’s hips, and when Morse leaned in to claim another kiss DeBryn nipped softly at his mouth and pressed him back until the bed bumped against the backs of his legs and he sat.

Like this his face was briefly level with DeBryn’s trouser front, until DeBryn sank to his knees to deal with Morse’s shoes. Above his head there was movement, and DeBryn looked up to see Morse’s shirt discarded to the foot of the bed, both arms raised in the act of tugging his vest over his head.

For a moment DeBryn sat back on his heels and stared. After their previous encounter he had spent more time than he cared to recall fantasising about what the fellow might look like under his clothes, and now he took in the sight greedily.

The twist of auburn hair under each arm, the sparse scattering of chest hair, those freckles strewn so enchantingly across pale shoulders... and then Morse emerged from his vest, tossed it vaguely in the direction of his shirt, and saw DeBryn watching. He rubbed a hand across his chest, his expression closing off slightly, self-conscious, and DeBryn caught his wrist and tugged him down, catching his mouth in a kiss.

The angle was familiar – at his height, DeBryn was used to having to tilt his face up to kiss his partners – but it was new and wonderful to spread his hands across all that naked skin as he kissed. Morse’s ribs were plainly felt, his shoulders and arms all lean muscle, and DeBryn splayed his fingers over them as Morse’s tongue brushed over his lower lip, sliding into his mouth a second later.

‘Here.’ Morse pulled back, smiling slightly, and DeBryn was at a loss as to why until Morse reached out and delicately lifted his glasses from his nose.

‘Oh.’ Without them DeBryn felt exposed, naked despite his layers of cotton and wool, and he glanced away. This put his gaze on a level with Morse’s groin, and he reached out to pluck at Morse’s belt buckle, pushing Morse’s hands away when he tried to help.

It took slightly longer than necessary, chiefly because DeBryn couldn’t resist the opportunity of sliding his hand into Morse’s loosened trousers, feeling him up through the thin cotton of his underwear, and pushing his fingers through the slit to touch blood-hot skin. But at least he gripped the waistbands firmly, and Morse planted his hands on the bed and lifted his hips to let DeBryn work the lot under his arse and down long legs, pulling them off his feet along with socks and loosened shoes. DeBryn discarded the whole mess off to one side, too intent on the naked skin before him for any considering of hanging the trousers up.

His distance vision was poor, but close to he could see perfectly well. Certainly well enough to appreciate the view; Morse’s long legs were spread wide enough for DeBryn to kneel between his feet, and the faint wisps of hair under his navel spread and thickened between his legs. His cock was flushed and thick, and Morse’s hands twitched on the bed, as though fighting an instinct to cover himself when he saw DeBryn looking so openly.

DeBryn shuffled closer, turning his head to kiss the soft skin of Morse’s inner thigh.

‘You... here, you’re still dressed.’ Morse’s hands were plucking at his shirt buttons and DeBryn hummed absently, turning his head to kiss the other thigh.

‘Yes, in a moment.’ He ran his palms up Morse’s legs, the hairs tickling against his palms, and curled his fingers so his short nails scratched lightly over skin. ‘But it’s just occurred to me that I owe you, after the last time.’

‘You owe me?’ A rare note of confusion in Morse’s voice, that changed to a gasp as DeBryn leaned in to nose at the hollow of his hip, feathering his breath over sensitive skin, and feeling Morse’s cock stir and bump against his jaw as Morse’s hips twitched.

‘Mmm.’ DeBryn turned his face slightly, enough to kiss wetly at the coarse hair at the base, and breathed him in.

He smelled clean, of soap and fresh arousal, and DeBryn suddenly wondered if he had showered before going out to Godstow. If he had stood in the shower and cleaned himself, perhaps thinking of a lover doing precisely this act, and the idea made DeBryn groan, his own cock pressed uncomfortably against the front of his underwear. He spread his knees slightly wider and breathed through the pleasurable ache of it as he lapped soft kisses along Morse’s length, until he reached the tip.

‘Oh.’ Morse’s breathy sound was delicious, but a moment later his hand slid between DeBryn’s mouth and his erection, covering himself. ‘Don’t you want me to wear... I mean you like to use...’

‘Not exactly like to.’ DeBryn sat back on his heels, looking up at Morse. ‘But when one is doing it with a different stranger every fortnight, it’s prudent.’ He grimaced faintly, his arousal ebbing. ‘Don’t make me go into details.’

Morse swallowed, his throat working, and when he made no reply DeBryn laid a calming hand on his thigh. ‘If you prefer it, though, we can certainly–’

‘Two years,’ Morse said quickly, the words seeming to fall from him.

DeBryn tilted his head uncomprehendingly at him.

‘Before you... I mean, before that time we...’

Incredibly, the fellow was flushing, embarrassed, and DeBryn stroked his leg. ‘I see. And before then?’

A flash of pain across his face. ‘Not for a long time.’

How was a man like this living such a monk’s life? When he responded so beautifully to a lover’s touch, and with a face and a mind that surely had prospective partners queuing up. Some old heartbreak, perhaps, and DeBryn knew an instant of irrational dislike for the anonymous person in Morse’s past.

‘Well then. Assuming you’ve been in perfect health since then, I rather think we could do without, unless you’ve any objections.’

DeBryn wanted to take that look out of his eyes, wanted Morse with him in the here and now, not fighting ghosts from his past, and he cupped his hand over Morse’s erection and stroked him lightly.

‘DeBryn...’

‘I rather think,’ DeBryn murmured, leaning in and letting his mouth brush the soft head as he spoke, ‘that under present circumstances you could probably call me Max.’

‘Max, then.’ That was a beautiful sound, Morse’s deep voice gone all rough and hungry, and DeBryn rested a steadying hand on Morse’s hip as he opened his mouth and took him in.

Morse’s hips twitched, a soft noise falling from him, and DeBryn tightened his grip warningly as he lowered his head further. Morse was hard, pushing thick between his lips and bumping against the roof of his mouth, and DeBryn pressed his tongue against the underside, keeping his mouth as soft and wet as he could manage, letting Morse slide out before pushing back inside again.

Above him Morse gasped for breath, and DeBryn rubbed the fingers of his free hand through rough brown hair before wrapping his hand around the base and holding tightly, pulling gently in the same rhythm as his mouth.

This made Morse’s hips cant forwards, a small hitch but enough for DeBryn to tilt his head and look up. Morse’s head was bowed – watching DeBryn take him in – his face flushed, struggling to keep his eyes open, and as DeBryn met his gaze Morse lifted a fist and pressed his knuckles to his mouth, his back arching fractionally.

Someone had taught him manners, at some point in his past. Or perhaps it was natural reticence that made him think even here, now, he couldn’t simply take what was so freely offered, because his back arched and his thighs spread wide – far enough for the tendons to stand out – but there was no touch on DeBryn’s head, not even a hand on his shoulder. Instead Morse leaned back, bracing his hands on the bed, and after a while DeBryn felt comfortable in taking both hands away and reaching behind him, cupping a double-handful of that pert arse and feeling it squirm as Morse fought not to thrust upwards.

It was torment of the most delicious sort, and DeBryn suckled at him and listened to his gasps turn to soft moans. He was getting close, the taste of him growing sharper, and DeBryn swallowed in preparation and bobbed his head, but a moment later Morse grabbed his shoulder, a sweaty palm pushing at his forehead and forcing himself gently but inexorably away.

DeBryn sat back on his heels. ‘Morse?’ Absently, he wiped his shirt cuff across his wet mouth and chin, and saw Morse’s eyes track the movement.

‘Not like this,’ Morse said, somewhat incoherently. His cheeks were painted with a hectic flush; lower down his cock jutted up dark and wet from the thatch of hair, and DeBryn trailed a slick thumb up the underside and watched it pulse as Morse groaned through his teeth and his thighs quivered.

‘You’re still dressed,’ Morse bit out, leaning forward to pluck at DeBryn’s shirt buttons. ‘Not like this, I want you with me.’

‘Ah.’ DeBryn got stiffly to his feet, each rub and press of his cock in his underwear an exquisitely painful tease. ‘Alright then.’

He swallowed as he toed off his shoes, Morse’s clever fingers dancing down his shirtfront, watching Morse’s bowed head as he concentrated, ruffled hair falling over his forehead.

A few years ago, DeBryn spent a long weekend in Paris. He had visited the Louvre and spent the whole day there, transfixed by beauty, and left with a series of enchanting memories tucked away in his brain to retrieve and peruse at a later date. In particular he had been captivated by the sculptures, the lithe bodies caught in the middle of standing or twisting or dancing, so lifelike that one half-expected to see them draw breath and smile.

Watching the muscles play in Morse’s shoulders, his thighs, DeBryn felt rather like a latter-day Pygmalion. The chap was beautiful; Canova and Michelangelo would have fought each other with knives to sculpt him naked, and nerves twisted suddenly in DeBryn’s stomach. Sculptures of tall and lithe young men were often seen in art galleries, short and plump never, and he had to force himself to relax while Morse stripped his shirt off, and pushed his trousers and shorts off his hips until they sagged awkwardly around his knees.

At least Morse didn’t look disappointed, though. He was leaning into to kiss DeBryn eagerly, resting his hands briefly on DeBryn’s shoulders before sliding them down his arms, pausing to grip lightly at DeBryn’s forearms, and DeBryn quickly stripped out of his clothes and leaned in to tumble Morse back onto the bed.

They rolled into the centre, arms and legs tangling until DeBryn found himself on top. He propped himself up on a forearm, running a hand over Morse’s chest, catching a nipple between his fingertips and feeling Morse shiver in response. How strange to think that – for all his experiences – this was the first time doing this in a bed. Since moving to Oxford such an idea had been out of the question; and even interludes spent with Paul, all those years ago at university, had taken place in locations more valued for their privacy and convenience than comfort. Shameful, really, that DeBryn had managed to get to this age without having ever had the luxury of rolling naked with a partner and looking his fill.

Clearly not Morse’s first time in a bed, though; he had spread himself out like a young prince lying back waiting to be pleasured, and DeBryn caught his chin and held him still for kisses. It felt sinfully indulgent, to have time enough to do this – and with both of them naked, moreover – and DeBryn kissed Morse until his lips tingled, sensitive, until Morse squirmed under him and spread his knees enough to trap DeBryn’s hips between them.

He pushed upwards, rubbing himself lazily against DeBryn’s stomach, and DeBryn caught his breath as lust spiked sharply through him. But first, more than anything, he wanted to hear Morse entirely undone with pleasure, and he gripped Morse’s narrow thigh and forced his legs to loosen.

‘What...’ Morse struggled up onto his elbows as DeBryn slid down the bed, and when DeBryn glanced up Morse was biting his lip, eyes gone dark and heavy-lidded. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes.’ No more preamble, DeBryn gripped the base of Morse’s cock, angling it up towards his mouth, and let Morse push back between his lips as Morse moaned, lips parted and eyes fluttering closed.

He was close already: tension straining in his hips and the salt-sharp tang of him. DeBryn dropped a hand to rub at his balls, drawn tight and sensitive at the base of his cock, trying to remember every pleasurable touch he had ever used on himself and replicate it with his hand, his mouth, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Morse twist his fingers tightly into the blankets.

The last time DeBryn had done this without protection had been at university, with Paul. The pair of them had each been the other’s first lover, and encounters had been as much about discovering their own bodies as a partner’s, learning not only how to give pleasure but how to receive it. The taste of Morse’s arousal brought back half-forgotten memories of kneeling in dusty corners of the library stacks, Paul’s hands urgent on his hair, and DeBryn closed his eyes and pressed his own hips forward to rub himself against the bed, aroused at the recollections and the pleasure he could hear in Morse’s soft noises.

Morse was moving, legs sliding restlessly, and an inadvertent bump of a heel against his ribs made DeBryn catch hold of a thigh, drawing it over his shoulder and wrapping an arm firmly around it to hold it there.

‘ _Oh_.’

DeBryn glanced up at Morse’s noise. Nearly there; it was unmistakable, the hitch in his stomach muscles, the shudders beginning in the thigh braced against his shoulder, and DeBryn swallowed the taste of arousal on his tongue and closed his eyes, concentrating on his rhythm until Morse’s hand settled on his forehead, pushing him away roughly.

‘What?’

Confused, DeBryn looked up the bed, but Morse had shut his eyes, his hand pulling at himself as his other hand gripped the blankets, his breath quickening, and understanding dawned.

‘No, here.’ DeBryn gripped Morse’s wrist and pulled his hand away, squeezing his wrist reassuringly at Morse’s little groan. ‘You can...’ He ducked his head, suddenly unable to put it into words. ‘My mouth. I don’t mind.’

Thank God Morse understood: his eyes went wide and his cock throbbed in DeBryn’s hand where he gripped it, guiding it back towards his mouth. 

‘Can I...’ Morse’s hips were moving, but they stilled at the touch of DeBryn’s mouth to the tip of his arousal. ‘Oh God, are you sure? I... oh Christ.’

DeBryn swallowed in preparation, keeping his mouth moving steadily as Morse’s hand settled on his nape, gripping hard, and listened to the rising pitch of Morse’s gasps until his back arched and he came, spilling into DeBryn’s mouth and fingers curling until his fingernails dug stinging points of sensation into DeBryn’s flesh.

It was an unfamiliar sensation – it had been more years than DeBryn cared to count since he had needed this particular skill – but he managed well enough. He swallowed quickly, once, twice, and let Morse rock up into his mouth, chasing the shivers of pleasure, let himself be used until Morse’s heel ceased to press frantically against his back and Morse’s hands settled in his hair, soft and caressing.

The noise Morse gave when DeBryn let him slide free was like nothing he had heard before, and he ducked his head to wipe his mouth on the back of his wrist, smiling helplessly in amusement, and perhaps just a touch of pride. For this Morse was a different individual to the one DeBryn saw at crime scenes: a lazy, sated creature who stretched his limbs and groaned with pleasure and pressed his knee commandingly against DeBryn’s ribs.

Awkwardly, DeBryn obeyed the silent command. His own erection was heavy and aching from neglect, and he moved clumsily up the bed to lie down next to Morse who rolled to face him, smiling. His face was softer like this, more open, and he laid a warm hand on the side of DeBryn’s face and leaned in for a kiss. DeBryn had been unsure whether this would be permitted – some fellows didn’t care for the taste of themselves – but Morse’s soft mouth pressed and clung against his and DeBryn closed his eyes and kissed him back, letting Morse coax his mouth open and find his own lingering taste.

The mattress rocked as Morse squirmed closer, sliding a hand down DeBryn’s stomach to curl around his erection.

‘Like this?’ Morse’s hand took up a swift pace. ‘Or do you want my mouth again?’

Lust speared through him sharply and DeBryn opened his eyes to find bright blue eyes watching him curiously.

‘No,’ DeBryn blurted, and Morse’s hand faltered. ‘I mean, yes, but... not yet.’

He had never done this in such luxury before, never been able to lie with a partner and spread him out, touch and taste all that beautiful pale skin. And now that he was here, with Morse, living the experience he had fantasised about more times than he cared to recall, DeBryn was reluctant to rush to its completion.

‘Slowly,’ he muttered. Whether or not Morse saw more than DeBryn intended to reveal was uncertain, but he leaned in for another kiss, sliding closer. Close enough to push a thigh between DeBryn’s and rest his warm hand on DeBryn’s back, and DeBryn closed his eyes again and concentrated on kissing Morse.

Now he was satisfied, Morse kissed as though he had nothing else to do, nowhere to be. He let DeBryn thumb at his chin, easing his mouth open so DeBryn could dip his tongue inside, and arched a little, almost purring, as DeBryn ran his hands over Morse’s chest and stomach. His nipples were dusky pink, his chest hair pale but rough under DeBryn’s palm, and DeBryn stroked it curiously.

This was a new side to the chap; not just his nakedness, but the gentle patience that was content to lie here kissing and fondling DeBryn lazily as though he had all the time in the world. If DeBryn hadn’t known him for the same man he almost wouldn’t have believed it and – on impulse – he slid closer, tangling his legs with Morse’s long ones and wrapping his arms around Morse’s lean waist.

‘Hullo,’ Morse breathed, when DeBryn ducked his head to run his mouth along the side of Morse’s throat. ‘Won’t you let me do something for you now?’

‘Not yet.’ DeBryn was aching for a touch, his cock pressed tightly against Morse’s stomach was only enough to tease, not enough to provide any real friction. But he wasn’t ready yet for this to be over, and he ran his fingertips along the delicate sweep of a collar bone and followed them with his mouth.

Morse sighed, tilting his head back and arching his back slightly, his body angling greedily towards DeBryn, and DeBryn sighed as a hand settled at his nape. Further down Morse’s hips had begun to twitch restlessly, and DeBryn looked down to see definite signs of renewed interest.

‘Well.’ DeBryn stared down at Morse’s cock flushed and half-hard. ‘Oh, to be twenty-five again.’

‘Twenty-eight, actually,’ Morse muttered, his ears reddening even as his hips nudged forwards.

‘Even so.’ DeBryn planted a kiss firmly on Morse’s mouth, torn between arousal and faint amusement at Morse’s discomfiture. ‘Do you always...’

‘Sometimes,’ Morse said, and leaned in for another kiss.

DeBryn could feel the shift in focus; Morse’s kisses changing from lazy to hungry, his attention tightening and sharpening, and DeBryn tilted his hips to grind himself against Morse.

‘Hmm.’ Morse swallowed hard, nudging DeBryn’s chin up for a kiss and muttering, ‘It might take a while. Doesn’t always happen.’

‘Fine.’ DeBryn clutched Morse’s hip with a sweat-slick hand and rubbed himself greedily against his cock, until a thought struck him and he stilled briefly. ‘The last time we...’ The memory was vivid: Morse nuzzling at DeBryn’s nape, long-fingered hands steady on his hips as DeBryn put himself back together, and then afterwards. Morse not moving away or saying his goodbyes but instead just standing there.

 _Hopefully_ , DeBryn’s mind supplied, seeing the memory with fresh eyes.

‘The last time,’ DeBryn managed, ‘were you...?’

Morse hesitated briefly, not quite meeting his eyes, and DeBryn breathed deeply under a fresh surge of arousal. Words failed him, and instead he leaned in, kissing Morse and sliding a hand down his firm back to rest a hand at the base of his spine, urging his hips forward. Morse’s cock bumped against his, faintly damp but nowhere near enough, and DeBryn leaned away, rolling towards the nightstand to find the small jar of Vaseline he kept there for his own solitary use.

A hand settled on his stomach, tracing the line of his ribs and skimming over his chest to find a nipple, and DeBryn breathed through the bright spark of pleasure. He turned back to find Morse watching his hand, looking with open curiosity at DeBryn’s chest and stomach; it made DeBryn conscious of the slight layer of softness he carried, in contrast to Morse’s angles, and he said, unable to suppress a certain tartness: ‘We can’t all be made like Greek shepherd lads.’

‘What?’ Morse confused was a beautiful sight, and DeBryn had to kiss him again for that alone, while he scooped out a smear of Vaseline and rubbed it over his palm before reaching down between their bodies.

Like this the slide was easier, and DeBryn curled his hand around Morse and let him thrust into his grip for a while, feeling the small shifts as Morse slowly thickened in his hold, and after a minute Morse squirmed forward.

Pressed stomach to stomach and chest to chest, it was clear when Morse’s stomach hitched slightly at the pass of DeBryn’s thumb over the sensitive tip; the sensation was so erotic DeBryn did it again, until Morse gave a half-groan and reached down to touch DeBryn’s cock in return, flattening his palm against it as DeBryn gritted his teeth against the noise that wanted to escape.

There wasn’t room for both their hands. They knocked into each other, throwing off the building rhythm, and after the third time DeBryn’s steady pulls on Morse’s cock had been interrupted by Morse’s knuckles, Morse huffed impatiently.

Long fingers wrapped around DeBryn’s wrist and pulled his hand away, smearing warm and faintly oily on his skin, but then Morse reached both hands down between them, gathering their erections into his fist and pulling at them.

DeBryn’s hands settled on Morse’s hips as he moaned. Morse was thrusting now, pushing his cock hard against DeBryn’s, and DeBryn made a rough noise as he kissed Morse. It wasn’t much of a kiss, just a greedy press of mouths and a nip of teeth, and Morse wriggled against DeBryn and bent his topmost leg, sliding it over DeBryn’s hips and hooking his calf around DeBryn’s thigh to hold him close.

Unnecessary. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged DeBryn away, not with the slow rock of Morse’s hips against his, the gentle tense and release of the thigh wrapped around his own, and the sharp curve of Morse’s iliac crest that fit so perfectly into the cup of DeBryn’s palm.

He was getting close. Morse’s hands were steady on his cock, rubbing at his balls, Morse’s chest hard against his, and Morse was kissing him hungrily. DeBryn closed his eyes and returned his kiss, arching his back slightly at the spiralling ache in his groin pulling into tighter focus. Morse’s rhythm stuttered as DeBryn moved, and DeBryn slid his hand around to grip Morse’s arse and silently urge him back into movement.

Or perhaps Morse thought DeBryn was pushing for something else, as he stilled at this new touch before ducking his head to mouth at the sweat tickling DeBryn’s temple and mutter: ‘Yes, alright, if you want to.’

DeBryn was about to protest he hadn’t intended any such thing before it occurred to him he’d be a fool to pass up the invitation, with Morse warm and aroused and his flush creeping from his face down into his chest, and he quickly found the pot of Vaseline.

The first stroke of his fingers across tight muscle drew a soft moan from Morse, movements growing ragged, and when DeBryn rubbed at him again, gently pressing a fingertip inside, his hand faltered.

‘Don’t stop,’ DeBryn ordered, gritting his teeth as the sparking edge of orgasm receded, and Morse obediently began to stroke them again as DeBryn rocked his fingertip in and out of Morse’s body with tiny, incremental pushes.

He was tight under DeBryn’s touch, so tight it was possible he had never done this before; DeBryn was dizzily unsure whether it was more arousing to imagine Morse had, or that he hadn’t. His kisses grew blurry, his hand on their erections losing the rhythm again, and at last DeBryn sank his finger all the way into Morse and listened to his ragged noise, his cock jumping in the warm curve of Morse’s fingers.

As a doctor he had no trouble finding the prostate, yet he also knew that – as with so many things about bodies – sensitivity varied. Some men were indifferent to it, some didn’t care for it, some found it pleasurable. After a minute or so, with DeBryn rubbing gently but firmly at him, Morse bit his lip and moaned loudly. The flush on his cheeks had deepened, and DeBryn tilted his chin up to kiss the sweat at his hairline, the lines at the corners of his eyes where they were squeezed shut.

‘Morse,’ DeBryn said at last, driven into selfishness by the need to come, the erotic tease of lying here watching Morse slowly unravel on DeBryn’s fingers. ‘Please, will you–’ 

‘Mmm.’ Morse’s hand took up a brisk pace, and Morse’s eyes opened to watch intently as he pulled at their erections.

‘Like this?’ he asked softly and DeBryn panted a little, toes starting to curl in anticipation.

‘Not quite,’ he said, pushing clumsily into Morse’s hand, trying to show him. ‘A bit more...’

For a moment it was uncoordinated, each of them moving at a different speed, but then Morse caught the pace DeBryn was straining towards and DeBryn groaned helplessly.

It was starting in the fronts of his thighs, behind his balls; from the way Morse was tensing on his fingers this was doing something for him too, and DeBryn fingered Morse in the same steady rhythm, pressing his face against Morse’s throat and letting himself fantasise about fucking him, about rolling him over and pushing into him until DeBryn shuddered hard and came into Morse’s hands.

In here, the privacy of his own house, there was no need to smother himself, and DeBryn moaned into the flushed skin of Morse’s throat as pleasure rolled through him in wave upon wave, stealing his breath until it finally ebbed.

‘Oh.’ Morse let DeBryn twitch away, pulling his sensitive cock out of Morse’s too-tight grip, and shifted both hands to pull at himself briskly, biting his lip. ‘Oh _Max_.’

‘Hmm.’ Sated, DeBryn wanted nothing more than to lie back and catch his breath, revelling in this novel sensation of lying on a comfortable bed while his body calmed. But Morse was tugging at himself frantically, his long back trembling, curling close to DeBryn to gasp, ‘Please... will you... Max, please’ into his ear and DeBryn roused himself. He curved an arm around Morse’s shoulders, holding him steady while he resumed the motions of his fingers, trying to match the desperate movements of Morse’s forearm.

It did the job, and for the second time that evening DeBryn listened to Morse’s voice break on a moan, felt him tense urgently in DeBryn’s arms, and his cock pulsed against DeBryn’s stomach. It was over much swifter than the previous one but DeBryn eased him through it, strangely possessive at the fluttering tightness around his fingers, the frantic huffs of Morse’s breath against the crook of DeBryn’s throat, as though it was a secret being confided, until Morse gasped a huge breath and sagged against him.

Easing his fingers away, DeBryn rested a possessive hand on Morse’s arse before rolling onto his back and closing his eyes, sighing. After a moment Morse’s lean frame settled against him, almost tentative, and DeBryn kept his eyes closed but worked his arm under Morse’s neck, hair tickling at his jaw as Morse’s head dropped heavy on the pillow next to DeBryn’s.

The air in the bedroom was chilly, and DeBryn shivered as the sweat on his skin began to cool. Morse was warm all along his left-hand side, and DeBryn focussed on the weight of the long limbs stretched carelessly across him for as long as he could manage before the nip of the air became too much.

DeBryn stirred. ‘We might get under the blankets, rather than lie here on top of them.’

There was no reply from Morse – he didn’t even twitch – and DeBryn curved the arm jammed awkwardly under Morse’s neck to catch hold of a shoulder and give it a little shake.

Morse lifted his head. ‘Mmm?’

He was flushed, hair falling over his forehead and mouth reddened with kisses. He yawned, lifting his wrist just a shade too late to cover his mouth, and DeBryn watched the tendons in his throat, the dusting of a day’s beard growth along his jaw.

‘Get under the blankets,’ DeBryn repeated, trying to sound practical rather than helplessly captivated. ‘It’s cold.’

‘Hmm.’ Morse scuffled, a foot glancing off DeBryn’s shin, before getting an elbow under himself and sitting up. ‘I should go.’

He sounded more as though he were trying to convince himself than inform DeBryn, who squinted at the clock on his nightstand. ‘At this hour you may as well stay the rest of the night. I’d rather not get the car out again.’

Morse stiffened slightly. ‘I could get the bus.’

DeBryn leaned over the pick up the clock and held it so Morse could read its face. ‘Not at this hour – you’ve missed the last one.’

Despite his sleepy eyes and soft mouth, Morse’s chin jutted slightly in an expression DeBryn was all too familiar with. ‘I’ll walk, then.’

Perhaps DeBryn ought to be offended at Morse’s insistence on making his way home, but it was difficult to summon annoyance in the face of Morse knuckling at his eyes, his hair even more of a mess than usual, and – lower down – his penis soft against his thigh, evidence of their mutual pleasure smeared across his stomach.

DeBryn snorted. ‘You?’

He couldn’t help but recall their conversation on the steps of the courthouse that afternoon; apparently Morse did too for he gave DeBryn a sharp look, opening his mouth, and DeBryn sighed. ‘I’ve no wish to hold you prisoner, but for goodness’ sake: I’m not going to kick you out at this time of night. I’ve an early shift tomorrow, and I can drop you home in time for you to change.’

A bit of a lie, but Morse folded. ‘Alright.’

He rolled away from DeBryn, swinging his legs off the bed and standing. He stretched, raising his arms over his head and arching his spine until DeBryn heard a faint crack. The sight made his mouth go dry, despite the satisfaction still humming along his bones. The milk-pale skin of Morse’s slim back, that fantastic arse that DeBryn’s hands itched anew to touch, the flex and play in the muscles of his shoulders that shifted as Morse turned and caught him staring. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ DeBryn looked away, conscious of his own rounder shape, the softness at his middle whose growth he had noted at first with dismay and then – over the past couple of years – with resignation. Fortunately he had left his dressing gown discarded at the foot of the bed last night, and he quickly scooped it up and shrugged it on. ‘I need to lock up downstairs.’ He waved a hand. ‘Bathroom’s that way. I haven’t a spare toothbrush but–’ he arched an eyebrow, ‘what with one thing and another, I consider us now sufficiently well-acquainted that you’re welcome to borrow mine.’

‘Thanks.’ Morse wandered off in the direction indicated, all glorious six feet of bare skin, and DeBryn fumbled his glasses on to watch him go before turning away resolutely and making for the stairs.

It was strange to hear the small sounds of someone moving about upstairs as DeBryn went about his evening routine, usually conducted in solitary silence. He put out the fire and cleared his whisky tumbler into the kitchen while listening to the plumbing upstairs, locked the front door and tried not to think of the warm body waiting in bed. In the kitchen he reached for the kettle automatically, then hesitated. No need for a hot water bottle tonight, and he set the kettle down and stuffed the rubber bottle in the cupboard under the stairs as he passed.

At last there was no further reason to linger – and his feet were cold – and DeBryn gripped the banister tightly as he climbed the stairs. Strange to be nervous. And also foolish, given all that had happened already that evening, and DeBryn entered the bedroom with an appearance of more calm than he felt.

Morse had straightened the blankets from their tangle and got into bed. He lay on his back, one hand resting on the pillow as though he had raised it to scratch his hair and simply left it where it fell. His head was tilted to one side, and DeBryn looked covertly at the clean lines of his jaw and throat as he moved about the bedroom, hanging his clothes up and then – after a brief struggle with himself – hanging Morse’s up too, so they didn’t look too obviously as though they had spent the night on a bedroom floor.

The stack of books on DeBryn’s nightstand was twitched slightly crooked, and DeBryn smiled faintly as he nudged _The Mill on the Floss_ back into line. A detective ought to be capable of more subtlety when covertly rummaging through someone’s belongings.

The sheets and blankets were pulled up around Morse’s chest. His bare chest, and DeBryn swallowed tightly, stripping off his dressing gown and sliding naked between the sheets. He was used to the initial chill of them – the hot water bottle warmed his feet but could do little about the rest of the bed – and was struck by the novelty of sheets already warmed by the heat of another’s body. Decadent, really, and he settled himself, jumping slightly when Morse stirred, rolling onto his side to face him.

‘I don’t snore,’ Morse said. His eyes were shut, his words already slurring with sleep. ‘If you’re wondering.’

‘I–’ DeBryn began, and stopped. For obvious reasons, he had no idea if he snored or not.

‘I find that reassuring to know,’ he amended, watching Morse’s eyes slit open to stare at him, glinting perceptively despite heavy eyelids.

This passed muster, for Morse glanced at the bedside lamp in silent request and DeBryn obediently leaned over to turn it out. In the darkness the small rustles of Morse shifting seemed unnaturally loud, and DeBryn almost flinched when cold fingers touched his waist and slid over his stomach.

The rest of Morse followed an instant later. He was all angles and uncomfortable bones; DeBryn half-turned onto his side, curling towards him as Morse seemed to want, but it was impossible. Knees bumped, and Morse’s hair was in DeBryn’s mouth, and DeBryn’s arm was trapped uncomfortably between their bodies in a way that threatened pins and needles in short order, but then all at once Morse relaxed, sagging into him, and DeBryn was able to extract his arm and slide it around Morse’s shoulders.

DeBryn closed his eyes, sighing as Morse settled himself, and twitched faintly as Morse’s cold hand tucked itself firmly against his back.

‘Goodnight,’ Morse said, his breath warm against DeBryn’s skin.

DeBryn rested a gentle hand over the curve of Morse’s skull, fancying he could feel that brain slowing down for the night. ‘Goodnight.’

In the darkness Morse shifted again but slower this time, sleep stealing up on him, and murmured softly, ‘I hoped you would come.’

Morse’s feet were warm where they rested against DeBryn’s, and DeBryn shifted closer as his own toes began to thaw. ‘Come where?’

‘You know.’ Morse broke off to yawn.

A suspicion tingled at the back of DeBryn’s mind and he tilted his head and squinted into the dark, trying to see Morse’s face. ‘Morse... did you go all the way out to Godstow on the gamble I would feel like paying a similar visit?’

The silence from the pillow next to him spoke volumes, and DeBryn gripped Morse’s shoulder in silent reproof. ‘You fool. If you wanted it that badly then why didn’t you simply ask me?’

‘I didn’t know if you’d want to.’ Morse stirred, a hint of his usual combative self coming through. ‘And anyway, why didn’t _you_ ask _me_?’

DeBryn sighed. Best not to pursue this line of argument; there was no way to explain how attractive – and consequently unapproachable – DeBryn found the fellow without losing his last shred of dignity. “Go to sleep,” he said instead. “And thank God you were right.”

\----------

Despite his tiredness, despite the late hour when they finally settled down to sleep, and despite the truth of Morse’s assertion that he didn’t snore, DeBryn’s sleep that night was restless and broken. It was too strange: the novelty of another’s sleep-noises next to him, the experience of rolling over to the middle of the bed and encountering not empty sheets but a warm tangle of limbs.

Morse seemed to have the knack, cat-like, of inserting himself into a narrow space and then slowly expanding to fill it, for DeBryn woke in the small hours, bare and shivering, to find he had been gently nudged over to the edge of the bed, allotted a meagre one-third of his own pillow.

He turned his head to blink in sleepy annoyance at Morse, sprawled in the centre of the bed, long limbs splayed at unlikely angles, his neck twisted in such a way that his breaths came as soft, whuffling sighs. DeBryn grumbled and prodded Morse, pushing at him gently yet firmly until Morse retreated to his side and DeBryn was able to retrieve a decent share of the blankets. He huddled under their warmth – heat from Morse’s body – and pulled them high over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, waiting to warm up, ready to drift back to sleep, but snapped back to alertness as Morse abruptly pressed up against his back.

Morse was warm, so very warm; he curled himself against DeBryn, chest to back, sliding his thighs along the backs of DeBryn’s and tucking the arches of his warm feet against DeBryn’s chilled soles. His arm slid around DeBryn’s waist, his hand hot and slightly sweaty as he pawed at DeBryn’s chest; his stomach rubbed comfortably against DeBryn’s spine, his hips pushed gently against DeBryn’s arse, and DeBryn covered the hand on his stomach and sighed, all his muscles loosening as he relaxed back into blissful warmth.

A pressure against his nape; Morse snuffling and rubbing his face against him, and as Morse’s hand turned to lace their fingers together, Morse grunted and spoke. ‘Susan.’

DeBryn closed his eyes, swallowing. Well, Morse had obviously shared a bed on a long-term basis before, it was plain in his ease, the way he automatically reached for another body in the night. No reason for DeBryn to be drawn up short at the fact Morse thought himself somewhere else, with someone else. And ridiculous in the extreme for him to feel vaguely disappointed, as though he had just come second in a race he somehow hadn’t even realised he was competing in.

\----------

Despite his uncomfortable thoughts, DeBryn didn’t recall falling back to sleep but the next time he opened his eyes the room was beginning to brighten. At some point in the rest of the night he had rolled over and Morse had wriggled down the bed, and DeBryn glanced down at the crown of Morse’s head, the birds’-nest of red hair, the arm slung over his waist and the hand pressed flat in the small of his back. A wonder Morse could breathe with his face half-mashed into DeBryn’s chest like that, but Morse huffed damp breath against DeBryn’s skin and DeBryn closed his eyes.

Other parts of him were awake also this morning, that had been uninterested when he was cold and fighting for his share of the blankets in the middle of the night, and he breathed deeply at the brush of Morse’s warm stomach against his cock. Breathed carefully too, not wanting to wake him, but Morse stirred and DeBryn looked down and glimpsed the corner of a mouth soft with sleep, dark eyelashes closed against flushed cheeks.

DeBryn shifted his legs. Morse had a knee tucked between DeBryn’s calves – DeBryn peered down the bed, trying to work out if Morse’s feet were hanging off the end – and as DeBryn moved his thigh pressed against Morse’s hips and discovered he wasn’t the only one whose body had reacted predictably to the warmth of another beside it.

A perfectly normal, healthy reaction, of course, and it didn’t necessarily mean Morse would want anything when he woke, but DeBryn closed his eyes, his memory providing – unbidden – perfect recollections of last night and he bit his lip as his cock firmed.

‘Mmm.’ Morse rubbed his face against DeBryn’s chest, the hand on his back fluttering, and tensed slightly.

‘Good morning,’ DeBryn said, a tacit reminder to Morse of where he was and who with, before his sleepy brain came up with the wrong name.

‘Morning.’ Morse blinked and relaxed, nosing at the faint scattering of hair along DeBryn’s sternum. The effect was like being nuzzled by a large, affectionate cat, and DeBryn swallowed at the tense and curl of Morse’s stomach where it pressed tightly to his groin. Morse’s voice was hoarse with sleep, all his edges soft and blurred as he asked: ‘How did you sleep?’

DeBryn sank his fingers into Morse’s hair, caressing it gently, but managed to keep his voice sharp. ‘Very poorly, since you ask. You may not snore, Morse, but you’re a terrible blanket thief.’

Morse snuffled into his chest, and it took DeBryn a moment to realise he was laughing. Morse. _Laughing_.

The shock of it was doubled a moment later when Morse murmured, ‘I am that. Sorry.’

Apologies too, would wonders never cease, and DeBryn looked at Morse’s hair curing around his own blunt fingers as Morse stirred, moving against him with greater intent.

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ Morse mumbled, ducking his head, and DeBryn was about to ask how Morse planned to return lost hours of sleep when Morse wriggled slightly to nose at DeBryn’s chest, his stomach, until finally he was grazing his mouth against DeBryn’s hip.

DeBryn quickly took his hand out of Morse’s hair, mortified at the thought of accidentally pulling at it, and caught his lip between his teeth when Morse lapped at the side of his cock. Lust pulsed through him, his cock twitching against Morse’s mouth, mingled with nerves. He had washed himself last night, of course, albeit mostly distracted at the idea of getting into his newly occupied bed, but it wasn’t the same as a proper shower. Yet Morse licked at him, and made a noise like a man who wasn’t unhappy at what he found.

‘Oh.’ DeBryn’s hands twitched towards Morse’s head, wanting to touch but unsure of his welcome, until Morse lifted his head.

‘Pillow,’ he said, reaching a hand up, and DeBryn passed one to him, unable to imagine why he wanted it until Morse wedged it under his head, settled himself comfortably, and opened his mouth to guide DeBryn inside.

Another luxury of doing this in a bed: sex first thing in the morning, with limbs still heavy from sleep and the hush of the world outside just starting to be broken by birdsong and the occasional car. If DeBryn woke needing to take care of matters then he did quickly, efficiently, but now Morse’s forehead rested against his stomach, hair brushing rhythmically over his skin, and DeBryn breathed unsteadily and listened to the soft, wet noises of himself sliding in and out of Morse’s mouth. Like this it would have been the easiest thing in the world to thrust forward, to let his body chase that tight heat, and the struggle to keep still added to the erotic tease of it, particularly when Morse’s long fingers began to stroke over the small of his back, his arse, the back of his thighs, curving and holding him.

It was starting already, the familiar tension crawling up his thighs, ecstasy sparking hot in his hips, just behind his balls, and DeBryn reached down to touch Morse’s face with a shaking hand.

‘Faster,’ he panted, pushing Morse’s hair back from his forehead with a sweaty palm, unable to bear not touching him, wanting to see.

The locks of hair curled around his fingers, like the softest tickle of a cat’s tongue, even as Morse’s own tongue rubbed deftly at the sensitive spot just under the head and his hand massaged the base tightly. When Morse tilted his face back to look up at DeBryn, watching him with those clear blue eyes, DeBryn at last touched Morse’s face.

‘I’m...’ DeBryn laid a hand clumsily against Morse’s cheek, hips twitching, shuddering with the need to finish, moments away from it. ‘Almost–’

At the last minute Morse let DeBryn slide out of his mouth, using one hand to squeeze and rub at the tip of his cock, the other grinding firmly against his balls, and DeBryn sucked in a last deep breath before he came.

It spiked sharply through him, and DeBryn reached instinctively to cover Morse’s hand on his cock, squeezing Morse’s fingers tighter and using them to pull the shudders of pleasure from himself, until the immediate sensation faded and he slowed their joined hands with a sigh. Morse’s fingers moved slickly under his; the touch was abruptly too much and at DeBryn’s flinch Morse took his hand away.

There was a pause, a moment of silence, and DeBryn lifted his heavy head to see Morse rubbing his thumb and forefinger together curiously. As DeBryn watched, Morse bent his head and his tongue tip darted out to lap at them, hesitant, and DeBryn exhaled a soft noise at the sight. Morse glanced up, dropping his hand quickly, and DeBryn cupped his jaw in one gentle hand, stroking Morse’s reddened mouth with his thumb, hoping the gesture conveyed a fraction of the messy feeling spilling over in his chest, all gratitude and desire.

Feelings that were dampened a moment later, as Morse wiped his chin unselfconsciously on DeBryn’s wrist and said, ‘That was fast.’

DeBryn paused, unsure whether his ego was bruised, unsure whether it ought to be.

Eventually he managed: ‘That’s... not previously been a problem.’

Because that was the absolute truth: not because he usually took longer but rather, at Godstow, stamina was not encouraged. Unless he was inside another chap and doing the decent thing by waiting for him to finish before taking his own pleasure, then speed and discretion were more highly prized virtues. After all, Godstow was not a place one visited for slow, sensual evenings in a lover’s arms.

‘Mmm.’ Morse gave an odd little one-shouldered shrug, and DeBryn cupped his nape, aware that Morse was still hard and unsatisfied, and watched interest kindle in his eyes.

‘Come here and I’ll return the favour,’ DeBryn offered.

He meant it, and as Morse slid up the bed – all ease and fluid grace – DeBryn began to move down, but stopped when Morse caught his arm.

‘Here.’ Morse pressed close to DeBryn, throwing a leg over DeBryn’s thighs. ‘Just here, like this.’

His hand was already on himself, stroking and pulling. Morse had caught most of DeBryn’s orgasm in his hands, and was using it to slick his cock, but he had missed a bit – possibly DeBryn had been moving rather too much – for there was a shiny streak on the side of his throat that DeBryn rubbed at with his fingers.

‘Here.’ DeBryn pushed Morse’s hand away, replacing it with his own, and started to tug at him.

He was so hard: his cock curving stiff and heavy in DeBryn’s palm, his breath already shaking, and DeBryn kissed his flushed mouth and rubbed his fingers tightly around the head, feeling Morse’s thighs shift restlessly against his.

‘Ah.’ Morse turned his face away, gasping. DeBryn let him go, moving instead to mouth at the side of his throat, tongue darting out subtly to brush the edge of where his own release had streaked across that warm skin, and Morse’s chest heaved a couple of times, gulping for breath, before he spoke. ‘What time is your shift?’

DeBryn blinked. Surely he hadn’t heard that correctly? But he raised his head and found Morse looking at him: flushed and tousled but with a familiar enquiring tilt to his eyebrows.

‘Not–’ DeBryn bit his tongue. _Not for ages,_ he had nearly said, before remembering promises made late last night and catching himself.

‘We’ve time enough,’ he said instead. Uncomprehending, and perhaps just a touch offended that Morse was able to make small talk when DeBryn had his hand on his cock, and was doing his best to get him off. ‘Why?’

Morse exhaled a deep breath through his nose, eyes fluttering closed. He lifted his arms over his head and stretched slightly, turning his head away, and DeBryn was seized by an urge to kiss along the length of the tendon visible in his throat.

‘In that case,’ Morse said, almost shy, ‘you might... take your time.’

Mouth dry, DeBryn stared at him. His beauty was that of a fallen angel, a being of divine grace who had discovered the pleasures of the flesh, and when Morse rolled his head to look at him, all bright blue eyes and sex-flush spreading down his throat to his chest, DeBryn could only repeat stupidly: ‘Take my time.’

‘Yes.’ Morse lowered his eyes, tracing his fingertips along DeBryn’s collar bone. ‘If you want. Since there’s no rush.’

‘No...’ DeBryn cleared his throat. ‘Duly noted, then.’

He tried to follow Morse’s suggestions as best he could. DeBryn tended to treat his own solitary sessions as something between biological necessity and guilty pleasure, not drawing it out any longer than necessary. But for Morse he tried to slow down; the slipperiness of his own release soon turned uncomfortably sticky, and DeBryn stopped and turned away to get a generous smear of Vaseline and warm it in his palm before turning back and letting Morse push greedily into his hand once again. He stroked Morse as slowly and for as long as he could, sliding his tongue into Morse’s mouth as Morse cupped his jaw, trying different pressures and angles to find the touches that Morse liked best, that made him arch into DeBryn’s hand and give voice to his pleasure.

DeBryn stroked him for as long as he could manage, until his wrist and forearm had started to cramp and ache, until Morse’s hands had changed to being soft and caressing to gripping tightly, his fingernails digging urgently into DeBryn’s back. DeBryn grit his teeth and maintained the pace as best he could, letting Morse have his mouth free to such in ragged gasps of air and instead mouthing along Morse’s hairline, where sweat had stuck tendrils of hair to his forehead; he stroked him until Morse tensed, until his hips finally twisted sharply under DeBryn’s hands and he came in great wracking shudders, almost sobbing with pleasure and relief.

As Morse clutched at him DeBryn kissed his cheeks, his crumpled mouth, letting Morse duck his head to smother his moans in the crook of DeBryn’s shoulder and keeping his hands moving, until at last Morse gave a final exhausted groan and fell back, collapsing onto the mattress as DeBryn immediately gentled his touch.

Morse flung an arm across his face, and after a few moments DeBryn let his cock slide out of his slippery hands, subtly trying to ease the ache in his forearm. He had never known anyone take that long, and was unsure whether to lean into Morse – as a lover would – or give him a few moments to recover; the chap looked all in.

The problem was solved a moment later, as Morse turned onto his side and pressed close to DeBryn, smearing a clumsy kiss over his shoulder and nosing at his throat.

‘Satisfactory, I hope?’ DeBryn managed, letting Morse push him onto his back and settle on top of him, tilting his chin up under Morse’s blunt, heavy-handed caresses.

Both of his hands were a mess, wet and sticky; Morse wouldn’t thank him for smearing it all over his back but then he was pressed belly to belly with DeBryn, careless of the mess between them, and DeBryn comprised by wiping his hands roughly on his own thighs before cupping Morse’s arse to hold him close.

It would have been easy to lie there all morning. So much bare skin to look at, to touch; DeBryn could have spent hours happily mapping each of the freckles scattered so liberally across Morse’s shoulders, watching the pink sex-flush gradually fade from his throat and chest, and resting his fingertips delicately against the flutter of his pulse in his throat.

But all too soon Morse groaned, rolling away and stretching, and DeBryn watched him hungrily until Morse looked over and DeBryn became aware he was very much the worse for wear: the hair on his belly and groin unpleasantly matted and itchy, his mouth sour.

‘You can have first shower if you like,’ DeBryn said, twitching a fold of sheet over himself and trying to look casual about it. ‘Although I warn you the hot water takes a wretchedly long time to come through. Clean towels are in the cupboard.’

Morse gave him an unreadable look – eyes tracking up and down his body – and DeBryn lifted his chin slightly, determined not to flinch under that bright-eyed scrutiny, until at last Morse grunted, ‘Thanks,’ rolled sleekly out of bed, and left.

Alone, DeBryn rolled onto his back and stared up at the blurred, distant ceiling, a curious mix of satisfaction and trepidation twining around each other in his stomach.

\----------

While Morse was in the shower DeBryn quickly made a cup of tea, and was halfway through gulping it down when the water shut off and the bathroom door opened. The speed of a man used to living in shared lodging houses, and DeBryn grumbled under his breath and abandoned his tea to go and take his turn.

After his own shower – scrubbing at his stomach with more than his usual vigour, and his thigh muscles faintly sore – DeBryn dressed and descended the stairs to find Morse hadn’t taken advantage of any of the breakfast supplies on offer in the fridge or pantry. Instead DeBryn found him prowling about the living room, a cup of tea cradled saucerless in one hand, inspecting DeBryn’s well-stocked bookcases.

‘Not hungry?’ DeBryn said. He was starving; last night and this morning had been more exertion than he was typically used to.

Morse shook his head. ‘No thank you.’ He was already wearing his coat. Shoes on and tied, pacing with his habitual energy.

‘Right.’ DeBryn cleared his throat, all too aware of the distance that once more stretched between them, as though last night had been nothing more than a dream. ‘I’ll just fetch my keys, then.’

No mistake, the man in his living room was definitely DC Morse; the blue-eyed sensualist of last night and this morning, who had wound his limbs around DeBryn, and wanted to be stroked and teased until his body shuddered into orgasm almost in self-preservation – was nowhere in sight. DeBryn shrugged into his coat and stole a glance at Morse as he lingered in his hallway, impatient to be gone. The only sign that there were the same person was the slightly flushed mouth; Morse looked perfectly put together – inasmuch as he ever did – save for the telltale redness of his lips.

The drive to Morse’s flat was conducted in silence, save for Morse’s terse directions, until at last Morse murmured, ‘Here is fine. Just on the corner.’

Probably wise not to be seen getting out of a man’s car at this hour of the morning, looking just-kissed as he was, and DeBryn ignored the slight sting and pulled over as directed.

‘Um.’ Morse looked down at his hands, picking at a thumbnail.

DeBryn raised his eyebrows, watching him but unwilling to interrupt whatever this was, until at last Morse darted an awkward glance at him.

‘Thanks,’ he muttered. ‘For...’ Morse waved a hand in the air between them, vaguely, and DeBryn nodded once.

‘You’re welcome.’ He chewed on his lip. In the car last night he had recommended Morse find an outlet for this sort of thing. Was that what this was, now? Was it likely to happen again? But before DeBryn could consider the wisdom of voicing any of the questions on the tip of his tongue, Morse jerked his head in a brief nod, slanted a last quick look at him, and got out of the car, his coat flapping around his long legs.

DeBryn drove off, glancing in his rear-view mirror once to see the tall figure standing on the street corner and watching the car retreat, its hair caught in the early morning light in a red-gold halo.

\----------

To his chagrin, DeBryn’s concentration was lacking that day. He thought about little else as he drove home – not to Cowley General, as he had told Morse – and when he got home his medical bag was sitting in its accustomed place by the hall table. If Morse had noticed DeBryn’s omission that morning then he would know the early shift for the fiction it was, unless he thought DeBryn had overlooked it in a fit of post-coital absent-mindedness. DeBryn was unsure which he hoped for more.

He thought about it as he wolfed down toast, standing over the sink to catch the crumbs, and remembered the narrowness of Morse’s waist under his hands. He thought about it – face burning – as he went upstairs to open the bedroom window and air the room, and found Morse’s damp towel dropped carelessly over a chair.

At the hospital it was easier, having work to ground him and DeBryn managed tolerably well. But in idle moments his mind would wander. Or he would stand too quickly, or lift a heavy microscope, and the twinge in his stomach and thigh muscles, the lingering ache in his forearm, would make his mouth go dry with memory, his blood heating. The only help came from the knowledge that his work mattered, that he hadn’t the luxury of daydreaming when the police were waiting on his results and the slightest error could cost them a conviction.

At lunch he declined a colleague’s invitation to the pub, aware his conversation would be poor at best, and instead spent it in his office, eating a sandwich and reading the _British Medical Journal_ , and trying vainly to suppress increasingly filthy thoughts about Morse and the sofa in his office.

By the end of the day, sitting with a glass at his elbow and _Summoned by Bells_ once again open on his lap, staring into the fire and half-aroused at the mere anticipation of going upstairs to lie among sheets that still carried Morse’s unique scent, DeBryn had acknowledged two things. One, he desperately wanted to see the fellow again; not DC Morse, but his smiling, tousle-haired bedmate of last night. And two, he had absolutely no idea how to go about it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before and after the events of 'Fugue' (s01_ep02).

It was a fortnight before DeBryn saw Morse again. A fortnight of half-losing himself in daydreams, of his head turning automatically at every tall red-haired man he passed on the street, of moments of panicked and thoroughly inappropriate arousal every time he stood too close to a man wearing the brand of cologne Morse favoured.

In his more eccentric moments, DeBryn thought of engineering a meeting. Nothing could be simpler: there was always some piece of information or a report to go to Cowley Road station; usually transmitted by phone or collected by the officer in charge, but it wasn’t unheard of for DeBryn to show his face there.

Reason always reasserted itself. Morse knew where DeBryn lived, after all; DeBryn had little doubt that his house number and road name had been noted by Morse’s sharp gaze on his previous visit. And he certainly knew where DeBryn worked.

Yet there had been no sign of him. No call, and no visit for reasons either genuine or manufactured. No contact whatsoever, in fact.

DeBryn was no fool: he could read that silence as well as any man and rather better than most, and in response he kept his head down and busied himself with work, trying hard not to dwell on memories of sleepy blue eyes, or a well-spoken voice gone ragged with pleasure.

Until he opened his morning paper over breakfast and saw Morse’s face staring open and unguarded from page eight. DeBryn paused, frozen, teacup suspended halfway to his mouth, while he read the article, and at the end he sighed.

So he sang, did he? And liked opera too. It was hardly a surprise; DeBryn had thought he had musician’s hands the first time they met. And Morse was probably good at it: he had a pleasant voice, and a quick mind. He would doubtless be furious at the story; the photograph looked as though he had been caught off-guard, and it was clear from the text of the article they hadn’t been able to get even the most innocuous quote from him.

DeBryn sipped at his tea, aware he was dwelling on it far more than circumstances warranted, and glanced at the clock to find he had already wasted a shameful amount of time mooning over the article like a lovesick schoolboy. He snapped the paper shut, although not without a last lingering glance at the photograph: the arched eyebrows, the softly parted lips, the incongruously stubborn chin. Unlikely he would be seeing the original any time soon, so he may as well look his fill at this.

In hindsight, DeBryn could have laughed at his own blithe ignorance.

\----------

The doorbell rang just at the time of the evening where DeBryn was glancing at the clock and thinking of dinner.

‘Dinner’ was perhaps a rather grand term for what it actually was, since this evening’s preparations involved merely opening a tin of soup. It was hardly the most appetising option, but it had been a singularly hellish week, and the work associated with four victims in a high-profile serial killer case meant he hadn’t time to cook. Even the prospect of something hot was a marked improvement on recent habits: the past four evenings had seen him returning home late, swallowing a piece of toast or a bit of bread and cheese, and then crawling straight into bed.

Yet at the chime of the bell he sighed, setting aside the _Book of Hours_ , and rose reluctantly from his warm fireside. Through the frosted glass panes in the front door he made out a tall figure lurking on his doorstep. The gas meter man, or some hapless door-to-door salesman, and for a moment DeBryn was severely tempted to ignore it but it was no use, the chap had see the lights in the hallway and raised a hand to tap insistently at the door, and at last DeBryn cursed under his breath and stamped down the hallway.

At least he could dispatch the unwanted visitor swiftly, though, whatever the caller wanted, and return to his fireside and Rilke. And perhaps a finger of Scotch, for if any week merited it then surely it was this one.

But when he swung the door open, DeBryn blinked in surprise. ‘Morse.’

‘Doctor.’

It was a Morse very much the worse for wear. Dark smudges beneath his eyes spoke of too little sleep, and he hadn’t acquired any more colour or life in his face since DeBryn had seen him skulking as close to Cronyn’s office door as he could reasonably manage, white as a sheet from blood loss and severe nausea. But it was his eyes that captured DeBryn’s attention: wide and lost, almost anguished, and DeBryn frowned in worry.

‘I thought it was all over? Don’t tell me they’ve found another one.’

He was already reaching for his coat, the bag he kept by the door, suppressing an exhausted groan, but Morse shook his head. ‘No. I... can I come in?’

‘Of course.’ DeBryn stepped back and swung the door wider, puzzled but game, and watched Morse limp inside. Before closing the door, he peered down his garden path to the orange pool of streetlights on the road. ‘Where’s your car?’

‘I didn’t drive.’ Morse unfastened his coat, moving stiffly, and DeBryn shut the door and looked at him quizzically.

Morse ducked his head. ‘This isn’t a work-related visit.’

At this, despite his weariness, DeBryn couldn’t keep his mind from a predictable – filthy – train of thought, nor his eyebrows from raising slightly.

‘I mean, not entirely,’ Morse said. Almost snapped, flushing to the roots of his hair, the tips of his ears turning scarlet. He shrugged his coat off, heavily favouring his left side, teeth worrying at his lower lip, and suspicion bloomed in DeBryn’s mind. ‘I think I’ve torn my stitches.’

DeBryn sighed, reaching out to ease Morse’s jacket away from his side, checking his movement at Morse’s instinctive flinch. ‘Of course you have. And you know this how?’

At least Morse had the grace to look sheepish. ‘I took the dressing off to check.’

‘Would this be the sterile dressing, that I myself fixed in place?’ DeBryn enquired, the slightest bit of acid creeping in around the edges of his tone.

‘Yes.’

DeBryn pushed his glasses up and massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. So much for his quiet evening, his supper and his measure of expensive Scotch, and his book.

‘Will you...’ Morse shifted his weight, managing to somehow look contrite yet defiant at once. ‘Would you tidy them up?’

‘Oh, fine.’ DeBryn gave Morse a warning look as the fellow’s shoulders sagged in relief. ‘But this is your last time, Morse. I mean it. If you don’t take a couple of days’ bed rest then you can jolly well go to Casualty next time. Where they will quite probably insist on admitting you, if you turn up with evidence of having torn out not one but _two_ sets of stitches.’

The chap must be in a bad way; he only bowed his head silently under DeBryn’s lecture, plucking at the buttons of his jacket and making no reply. DeBryn stepped forward to help him slide it off and down his shoulders, and when he saw the large bloodstain marring the clean white shirt he hissed through his teeth.

‘That looks painful.’

Morse sighed petulantly. ‘And now I owe Jakes a new shirt, too.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ Morse glanced at him, and DeBryn permitted himself a small smile. ‘One thing about pathologists, Morse: we know a wide variety of tricks to remove bloodstains from clothing.’

DeBryn tilted his head down the hallway. ‘Into the kitchen with you.’

Morse started gingerly down the hall, his shoes scuffing along the carpet, and DeBryn picked up his medical bag and went via the living room to collect the brandy. Perhaps not the officially sanctioned treatment but – he was under no illusions – Morse would welcome it far more than any more conventional alternative.

In the kitchen Morse stood awkwardly, leaning his weight on his good side with one hand braced on the counter. The harsh light washed all the colour from his face, and DeBryn pulled a glass from a cupboard and tipped a generous measure of brandy into it. ‘Here.’

Morse took it with muttered thanks, long fingers brushing DeBryn’s, and DeBryn busied himself setting out the necessary items as Morse drank.

‘Up on the counter,’ DeBryn said, turning back to Morse, watching his throat work as he sipped at the brandy. ‘There’s no way I can do it with you standing like that.’

In truth he could sit while Morse stood, but it seemed unfair to ask the fellow to stand through the process when he looked so dead on his feet already.

‘Here.’ DeBryn stepped close when Morse set his glass aside and braced a hand on the counter. ‘Let me help.’

With Morse’s hands tight on his shoulders, DeBryn gripped his hips and half-helped, half-hoisted him up onto the counter, trying to spare him any movement that would pull at that gash on his side, and let go when Morse leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, pulling exhaustedly at the tie. A blue one today, that would likely compliment the shade of his eyes if the fellow didn’t look so thoroughly wrung out.

It was reminiscent of the morgue, save that this time there was no constable Strange hovering worried outside, waiting to drive Morse back to the station. No need for DeBryn to chatter on in an attempt at distraction: keeping himself from saying or doing something overly familiar, and keeping Morse from keeling over from low blood pressure and queasiness.

It hadn’t been an erotic experience by any stretch of the imagination, but there had been something there even so. A certain awareness of the smell of Morse’s hair, the warmth of his skin, and the firm muscle of his body under DeBryn’s hands. Something that was absent this time, for DeBryn felt nothing but professional worry as he eased Morse’s shirttails free of his trousers to see the damage.

Rendered docile with tiredness, Morse held his shirt and vest out of the way readily enough and DeBryn picked gently at the edges of the loosened dressing, catching his breath when he saw the wound. It was red and inflamed, gaping anew with a sluggish ooze of fresh blood, and DeBryn shook his head severely as he discarded the soiled dressing.

‘You’re verging on an infection here. And sepsis is no laughing matter.’

‘I know.’ The brandy had put a bit of colour back into his cheeks, and Morse set his jaw as DeBryn scrubbed his hands at the kitchen sink and dried them on a clean towel.

‘This is going to sting,’ DeBryn warned, turning back to Morse to soak a pad with saline, ‘but try not to tense too much or you’ll pull at the remaining stitches.’

In such cases speed was by far the kindest option. Speed, and distraction, and DeBryn allowed Morse his silence while he cleaned the wound before murmuring, ‘I didn’t know you sang.’

‘What?’ Morse’s voice was already hoarse with pain, the tendons in his throat standing out sharply.

The wound had bled further, and DeBryn pressed a clean piece of gauze to it. ‘Here, hold that.’ Tactfully, he took longer than necessary threading the needle. ‘Your choir.’

‘Oh.’ Morse stirred a little. ‘Yes.’

‘Mmm.’ DeBryn touched Morse’s ribs gently, and sighed when he immediately tensed. ‘Morse, you really do need to relax for this part, or the stitches won’t sit properly.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Morse said, his words clipped, but he rolled his shoulders and settled himself against the tiles.

‘What are you working on currently?’ DeBryn reached for the needle, trying to keep his hand out of Morse’s line of sight, but saw his eyes flicker to it.

‘We’ve a break this week. But next week we’re starting rehearsals for Mozart’s–’ Morse’s voice caught at the first pierce of the needle into inflamed flesh, ‘–Mass. C minor.’

‘Oh yes?’ Glancing at Morse’s face as he drew the suture thread smoothly through, DeBryn found him frowning, glaring at the far wall as though it had offended him. Remembering the newspaper story, DeBryn guessed, and he pretended not to notice. ‘I’ve always been rather fond of Tchaikovsky, myself.’

Morse huffed, displeased; it caught on a gasp at the fresh bite of the needle, but he recovered enough to mutter, ‘Overblown.’

DeBryn’s lips quirked in amusement. ‘I look for refinement in my poets, Morse, I don’t demand it from my composers as well.’

Unfortunately Morse didn’t rise to that, and DeBryn let him be. He wasn’t accustomed to having to make conversation with his usual patients, and perhaps it was unfair to ask Morse to speak while he was determinedly holding himself steady against considerable pain.

The silence between them was broken only by Morse’s harsh breathing, and the quiet tick of the clock, until DeBryn turned away to thread his needle for the final time. ‘Nearly done, only two more to go.’

‘Thank Christ.’

The brandy had brought a proper flush to Morse’s cheeks now, the eyes he turned to DeBryn had hugely dilated pupils from the pain, and his lips were bitten into redness. The overall effect was striking close to arousal, and DeBryn mentally scolded himself for the thought.

He searched for something to say.

‘You found your way back here, then.’

So much for not letting his mind wander onto taboo subjects, and the faintest thread of arousal flickered low in DeBryn’s stomach at the memory of Morse’s previous visit.

‘Yes. Took a – ah – a couple of wrong turnings though.’

‘Indeed? Last one now, hold still.’ Morse grunted a little as DeBryn worked. ‘Had quite the active evening, I see.’

Morse exhaled sharply, and as DeBryn began to tie off the thread he glanced up at Morse’s face – gauging his steadiness – and found him looking over at the tin of soup, the bread and cheese set out on the counter, with a covetous expression. ‘I’ve interrupted your tea.’

His accent shifted slightly further north when he was tired, DeBryn noted with faint amusement. Aloud he only said, ‘Such as it is.’

Looking at Morse again DeBryn found him still staring at the food and, driven half by pity for this ragged fellow with the wild hair and tired eyes and bloodstained shirt, who had arrived at his door like a piece of flotsam, and half by a reluctance to lose his company, DeBryn offered: ‘Join me, if you like. I’ve enough for two.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly.’ But although Morse looked away, his glance returned to the food. ‘I’ve already disturbed your evening.’

Quietly charmed at this belated show of manners, DeBryn snorted gently. ‘Morse, my plans for the evening involved Rilke and perhaps Beckett and, while they are men of unparalleled wit and acuity, they are neither of them great conversationalists. Stay.’

There was no further argument. Which was likely as close as one got to enthusiastic agreement from Morse; DeBryn had a vague sense of achievement just at having had the last word.

He prepared the dressing, and as he smoothed it into place DeBryn looked up to see Morse’s gaze had a new focus. He turned his head, following it to the fat yellow teapot that sat by the stove.

Ah.

DeBryn’s face warmed at the memory of his own slip with Grace Madison’s teapot. It had been a busy day, that was why he had overlooked it. Nothing to do with Morse picking his way around the room neat-footed as a cat, all sharp-edged intelligence and vivid blue eyes.

All the same: DeBryn had apologised to the lady, in the morgue. It was an oversight of the most basic sort: simply because the deceased was of advanced age did not automatically mean death from natural causes, as he had often told his assistants. And testing food and drink at the scene of a sudden death should be second nature. _Would_ have been second nature, in fact, if his gaze hadn’t kept turning elsewhere.

‘I hear congratulations are in order.’ DeBryn added a last piece of tape to the dressing before he was satisfied it would hold. He had been entirely serious, but Morse flinched under DeBryn’s touch as though pricked with a pin. ‘What’s that for?’

‘You make it sound like...’ Morse frowned, his mouth crumpled slightly. ‘Like some great operatic battle. Good and evil. Like I’ve _won_ something.’

‘Well.’ DeBryn leaned a hip against his kitchen counter, watching Morse slumped like a puppet with its strings cut. ‘I don’t think anyone would deny there was evil there.’

‘I know, but it...’ Morse’s brow furrowed as he searched for words, staring down into his empty glass as though he would find them at the bottom. ‘At the end it was just... sad. And cruel. Like a boy pulling the wings off flies, just because he could. There was no grand battle, just nastiness. And pointlessness – four lives gone, and for what?’

DeBryn’s heart went out to him, this man sitting there looking so crushed by the weight of the world. He gripped Morse’s knee. ‘There was also courage, Morse. Don’t forget that.’

When Morse lifted his blue eyes to DeBryn, DeBryn grew abruptly aware he was standing with his hand on Morse’s thigh, and quickly took it away.

‘Now then.’ He turned away, gathering the bloody needle and soiled gauze scattered across the bench. ‘Dinner is only soup with a bit of bread and cheese, I’m afraid, as it’s been a wretchedly long week. No, here.’ DeBryn turned to find Morse awkwardly trying to get down from the bench and stepped forward swiftly to offer his shoulders for support, conscious of the lingering trail of Morse’s hand along his arm when Morse was safely on his feet.

‘Go and sit by the fire,’ DeBryn ordered, ‘and drink my brandy if you must but at least enjoy it – I picked it up on my last trip to France. But what you really should be drinking is stout, for the iron.’

DeBryn fetched a bottle from the larder, handing it to Morse with a glass before turning him firmly out of the kitchen and towards the living room with its warm hearth.

Such a simple meal took no time at all to prepare, and DeBryn carried a tray through for Morse and watched him wince as he struggled to sit up in the overstuffed armchair. True to form, the stout was unopened but brandy bottle had made its way from the kitchen to the floor by Morse’s armchair, tempered with a volume of E. E. Cummings, and DeBryn watched Morse’s mouth pinch tight as he moved and murmured, ‘That reminds me.’

When DeBryn brought his own tray of food through, he dropped a couple of tablets on Morse’s tray in passing.

‘Painkillers,’ he said, in response to Morse’s questioning look. ‘They should take the edge off, at least. But you do need complete bed rest, at least for a day or two.’ He tried a smile. ‘Now the hurly-burly’s done.’

‘And the battle’s lost and won.’

DeBryn glanced sharply at Morse to see him staring into the dancing flames and sighed quietly; he could repair the body but the mind he could do nothing for. The job took them all in different ways: some crumbled under the weight of it, some tried to lose the memories at the bottom of a bottle, some found refuge in family and fireside. DeBryn looked at Morse’s sharp profile – sitting in his solitary armchair, food untouched but bottle of brandy within easy reach – and hoped very much that his suspicions were wrong.

After a moment Morse stirred, glancing over at DeBryn. He licked his lips, and spoke softly. ‘I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough to make every moment holy.’

The words resonated oddly, until DeBryn saw Morse’s gaze flick to the volume of Rilke perched on the arm of his chair.

What could DeBryn say to that? ‘Morse...’

‘Cronyn... Gull, I mean.’ Morse swirled his brandy in his glass, staring down into it. ‘He said that to be clever is to be alone. It just... got me thinking, I suppose.’

There was no false modesty to him, and DeBryn tried not to find it endearing. There was also perhaps a grain of truth to that statement, but at that moment DeBryn would sooner have cut off his own hand than admit as much to a Morse who looked so bent down under the weight of the past week.

‘Mason Gull was certified insane,’ DeBryn responded crisply, encouraged when Morse looked over at him, a faint flicker in his eyes as though he were longing to be convinced. ‘Of course he would say that to you. If you...’ DeBryn cleared his throat, looking towards the fire. ‘If you want companionship, Morse, then I’m sure you’ll find it. The question is whether you want it, though.’

There was no answer from the other armchair, and DeBryn stole a glance across at him to find Morse frowning into the flames. At first glance he didn’t seem cut out for domestication, and yet DeBryn had seen less likely candidates than Morse lose their rough edges, given proper care and feeding.

‘Eat, Morse.’ DeBryn picked up his own spoon pointedly. ‘Take your painkillers, and eat. Things will look better with some food inside you, I promise.’

Morse stirred, coming back to himself and DeBryn watched him covertly for a few moments to satisfy himself Morse was going to eat his food and not just poke at it.

‘I see you chose Cummings.’ DeBryn nodded towards the book laid aside on the arm of Morse’s chair. ‘You like his work, then?’

‘Yes.’ Morse looked down at _73 Poems_ resting by his elbow, his face softening.

DeBryn thought for a moment. ‘For whatever we lose,’ he began at last, watching Morse’s expression lighten, ‘like a you or a me, it’s always our self we find in the sea.’

‘Mmm.’ No mistake, that was the beginning of a smile. ‘I’m rather fond of “Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question”.’

Morse and poetry and firelight were a heady combination, and DeBryn ducked his head to take a bite of toast, grounding himself.

‘Yes, I imagine you would be.’

Morse looked at him but DeBryn offered no explanation. How could he, to this beautiful man with his clever mind all but spilling over with beautiful answers, who made DeBryn restless with questions he daren’t ask.

For a policeman Morse was astonishingly well-read. The conversation wandered from poetry to plays to travel, and from there to literature. It had been a long time since DeBryn had had such easy conversation with someone: his patients weren’t the talkative sort, and the occasional pub quiz team he joined wasn’t a venue for sitting around chatting.

Firelight suited Morse. It softened some of his sharp angles and made his hair gleam like old gold; the twin effects of warmth and food had smoothed away some of the finer lines around his eyes and mouth, and he even laughed at a story DeBryn told about a previous lab assistant.

‘So of course I had to send the poor lad home,’ DeBryn concluded, stretching his feet out towards the fire with a mock put-upon sigh. ‘I couldn’t make him work the rest of the day after that.’

Morse mirrored him, moving with rather more grace now the painkillers had begun to work. ‘All heart, Doctor.’

‘You know,’ DeBryn looked at Morse over the tops of his glasses, his tongue loosened by Scotch, and spoke without thinking: ‘I’m sure I told you that you could call me Max.’

The next instant he bit the inside of his cheek hard at the memory this prompted – himself kneeling between Morse’s feet, his hands impatient on Morse’s belt – and the skin of his chest and stomach flushed warm with arousal.

Morse didn’t seem to notice.

‘Alright.’ He sipped his brandy. ‘Max.’

Morse said it softly, rolling it around his mouth like a fine cognac, and DeBryn swallowed. With his smile lingering around his eyes, his tie discarded and collar open, and his hair well and truly rumpled, he didn’t look at all like Oxford City’s finest, nor like the patient who had come to DeBryn’s door for help, sore in both body and soul. He simply looked like an attractive young man having a pleasurable evening by the fireside.

But DeBryn couldn’t allow himself to forget that just because Morse’s body was patched together it didn’t mean his spirit was likewise; DeBryn reminded himself sharply of Morse’s eyes when DeBryn had opened the door to him: enormous and weary and half-sick from too much death.

Across from him Morse arched his eyebrows expectantly, and DeBryn realised he was staring. He looked away. In the fireplace a bubble of sap popped in one of the logs, breaking the silence, and a moment later Morse stirred.

‘I should be going.’ Morse shifted lazily, seeming to lack conviction. Truth be told, he looked so warm and relaxed as to barely be able to make it out of the chair, never mind out the door and onto a bus across Oxford. And DeBryn was likewise cosy and well-fed – or at least adequately fed – and halfway through his second drink, and supremely unwilling to don boots and overcoat to play taxi driver.

The fellow was doing well simply being awake, really. The last time DeBryn had seen him Morse was almost asleep on his feet in the morgue, with a pallor to his skin and smudges beneath his eyes that the intervening hours had done nothing to remedy. When had he last slept? A proper sleep, in bed, not forty winks snatched at his desk or on a sofa.

The armchair’s upholstery was rough under the pad of DeBryn’s thumb as he rubbed at it, watching the path of his thumbnail against fabric and trying to sound indifferent. ‘There’s a spare bedroom upstairs, if you want it. And I could drop you back in the morning.’

Eyes unreadable, Morse looked at him. ‘Oh?’

‘Mmm.’ Morse spent so much of his time at crime scenes avoiding the corpse that it was rare DeBryn had the full weight of that sharply intelligent gaze directed at him.

‘Or there’s the door. Just as you please, of course.’ After a few seconds of scrutiny, DeBryn gathered his legs under him and stood. ‘I’m making coffee, if you’d like some.’

He set his own tray aside and crossed to lift Morse’s off his lap, but before he could take it away to the kitchen – to seek some much-needed distance to compose himself – Morse shifted, uncurling cat-like. His body tilted forward, and he reached out to rest a hand on the outside of DeBryn’s thigh. ‘Leave that.’

DeBryn drew a sharp breath, only reflex saving him from dropping the tray straight back into Morse’s lap. Morse’s expression had cleared of its quizzical look, and now he looked up at DeBryn with intent in his gaze. DeBryn bit his lip as he stared down at Morse, his heart starting to race and butterflies fluttering in his stomach, his knees suddenly unsteady.

‘I’ve nothing against your spare room.’ Morse’s voice was husky, the colour of his cheeks deepened from the pink of warmth and food to almost a flush. His hand was steady on DeBryn’s thigh: not pushing or grabbing, but no hesitancy either. ‘But I’m not sure the bed will be comfortable enough.’

DeBryn swallowed hard, his face burning from the mingled heat of the fire and the pressure of Morse’s hand on his thigh. Carefully, praying his hands didn’t visibly shake, he leaned aside to set the tray down on the side table, conscious all the while of Morse’s palm beginning to rub lightly up and down his leg, as though he were learning the texture of DeBryn’s woollen trousers.

‘Morse.’ DeBryn rested a hand over Morse’s, stilling it. Simply the soft back-and-forth of Morse’s palm sent tingles of arousal through him, gathering warm interest in his groin, never mind the fact of Morse’s face – that sensual mouth, and gently hopeful tilt to his eyebrows – on a level with his trouserfront. He struggled for his usual tone, but ended up sounding breathless as he said: ‘You really don’t have to prostitute yourself for food and medical treatment. I’ve no objection to putting you up for the night.’

At this Morse’s mouth slanted upwards, his eyes crinkling. ‘I know.’ He eased his hand out from under DeBryn’s, and DeBryn knew an instant of disappointment before Morse slid his hand around to the inside of DeBryn’s knee and resumed his stroking, his thumb sliding deliberately up and down along DeBryn’s inseam. ‘But I want to.’

There was only so much DeBryn could take: he was only human, and he had already made the requisite nod towards doing the decent thing. ‘Well, if you’re going to insist.’

‘Mmm. I do insist.’ Morse’s smile was all lazy confidence, the assurance of a cat to whom cream was promised, and when he caught a fold of DeBryn’s pullover in his fingers and tugged, DeBryn took a stumbling step forward and leaned down to kiss the triumphant curl of his lips.

Morse tasted of expensive brandy, his lips opening readily under DeBryn’s mouth, and DeBryn kissed him until he was breathless, until the heat in his face told him he must be flushed almost scarlet. He laid a hand on Morse’s cheek, stroking the curve of a too-sharp cheekbone.

The caress drew a sigh from Morse, and the slow slide of his hand up DeBryn’s thigh. Higher and higher, tantalisingly close to where DeBryn’s interest was starting to become apparent, before changing direction and sliding back down. DeBryn gave a sigh that was a hair’s-breadth from a groan and leaned back down for another kiss. This time he dared to give a tiny nip at Morse’s lower lip, a small reproof, and Morse smiled against his mouth, his hand starting to stroke upwards again.

DeBryn dipped his head lower, running his lips along Morse’s jaw. Morse tilted his head back as his hand finally cupped DeBryn’s arousal through his trousers, and DeBryn bit gently at the curve of Morse’s jaw as Morse’s fingers fluttered delicately over his length. Morse made a soft noise, arching his back, but it changed almost immediately to a hiss of discomfort.

At once DeBryn straightened, the slow, heady fog of lust dissipating at the sound of Morse’s pain. ‘This may not be advisable in your current circumstances.’

As he had known it would, this made Morse’s jaw firm, all his lazy, half-smiling desire changed to mulishness. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Oh yes, very fine for a man who turned up at my door bleeding through his shirt.’

But it was hard to infuse his voice with the necessary reproof when confronted by Morse sitting there looking the picture of desire, with flushed cheeks and long legs carelessly sprawled.

‘We’ll be careful,’ Morse coaxed. He reached forward again, hooking narrow fingers through DeBryn’s belt loops and tugging him to stand between Morse’s knees. ‘Nothing athletic.’

He tipped his face up, and DeBryn was helpless to refuse the unspoken request for more kisses. Helpless to refuse Morse’s seductive promises in the slightest, in fact; he had never before had a lover coax him to bed, and the experience proved irresistible.

And when Morse murmured, ‘I promise,’ breath tickling the damp and newly sensitive skin of his lips, DeBryn capitulated.

‘Very well.’ He tried to sound put out – to maintain at least a show of professional scruples – despite his giddy delight at the smile on Morse’s face, as though Morse had won something. ‘Go on, get upstairs. You know where you’re going. I’m going to lock up down here.’

DeBryn stepped back, offering Morse a hand out of the chair, and Morse gripped his forearm and levered himself awkwardly up with a softly pained exhalation that made DeBryn’s lips pinch tight at the reminder of new stitches.

‘Come on.’ Morse laid his hands on DeBryn’s hips, dipping his head for another kiss, unwilling to do as ordered.

‘Yes, yes, in a moment.’ It was like being pulled by a magnetic field, and DeBryn gripped Morse’s shoulders and followed as Morse walked backwards, drawn along by Morse’s hands sliding over his hips and waist, returning kiss after kiss until Morse straightened, licking his lips.

‘Off with you.’ DeBryn gave him a weak push in the direction of the door, before he lost patience and shoved his hand down Morse’s trousers right there, and this time Morse stepped away and went. He moved awkwardly, and DeBryn watched his gait in concern until another reason entirely occurred to him and he looked away, rubbing damp palms on his thighs.

DeBryn completed his evening routine in a haze of arousal, utterly distracted at the thought of Morse upstairs, long fingers carefully removing shirt, trousers, and underclothes, and sliding naked between the sheets.

This was different to the previous time, with DeBryn wound tight as a spring through nerves and residual annoyance at Morse’s careless disregard for not only his fledgling career but even his own safety. Morse had redirected that furious energy into a different sort entirely, and chivvied him home and tumbled him into bed almost before DeBryn had got over the shock of Morse’s suggestion.

But this felt deliberate, and DeBryn set the empty milk bottles on the front step before closing and locking the front door, and took a deep breath. No reason to be nervous, not after what they had already done to each other, and when he found himself contemplating the washing up he shook his head, annoyed at his own hesitancy, and turned away.

In the master bedroom, Morse’s trousers were folded and hung neatly over a chair back, the shirt with its garish bloodstain draped over them. Morse had left the bedside light on, and tugged the sheet and blankets carelessly up around his chest in a way that made it abundantly clear he was naked beneath them.

He lay on his back, eyes closed, one hand tucked beneath the pillow under his head. His hair had fallen back from his relaxed face, making him looking younger and less careworn, and making DeBryn’s hand tingle with the desire to curl a lock around his fingertip.

As DeBryn watched Morse’s’ eyes slitted open, twin glints of bright blue from beneath his half-closed lids, and he shifted. It was the merest change in position but his body tilted towards DeBryn, his legs parting slightly beneath the blankets, and a subtle tension gathering in his shoulders. In the space of one breath and the next he no longer looked like a man worn out after a long day, he looked like a man waiting for his lover to join him, and DeBryn turned away and began to pick at his shirt buttons with shaking fingers.

‘Do you want the light on or off?’ DeBryn asked, busying himself with aligning his shoes neatly by his wardrobe, conscious of Morse’s eyes on him.

Behind him there was a rustle of sheets. ‘Mmm. On.’

Well of course he would. That would teach DeBryn not to ask but merely to claim host’s prerogative and turn them off, and DeBryn spared a glance for Morse’s slim lines in the bed, the lean muscle in his chest and shoulders, and tried not to mind the softness of his own belly as he shrugged off his shirt and loosened his belt. Morse’s gaze on his was an almost tangible weight, and when DeBryn slide his underwear and trousers down his legs and off, turning back to the bed, he found Morse’s gaze tracing curiously over him. His shoulders, his arms and chest, his stomach, and lingering at the thatch of dark hair between his legs, where he was already half-hard just from the promise of Morse in his bed.

The scrutiny made his skin prickle, and DeBryn quickly crossed the room to slide between the sheets, his heart racing a little at finding them warm with Morse’s body heat, shivering at the delicate brush over the sensitive skin of his cock. And then Morse leaned towards him, bare thigh sliding against his, and DeBryn’s heart felt as though it would leap straight out of his chest.

Morse’s hands were warm. Warm, and just the slightest bit damp with sweat, and DeBryn reached for him, slid his own clumsy hands over Morse’s bare chest and along his arms, and leaned in for a kiss.

Like this was so much better. Morse’s mouth opened readily against his, his tongue warm and wet, and DeBryn ran a hand down Morse’s ribs and lust spiked sharply through him. Morse’s hands slid over DeBryn’s back, pulling him close, and DeBryn got an elbow under himself and leaned over Morse, careful not to rest any weight on him.

His nipples were a dusky pink, and Morse inhaled gratifyingly when DeBryn rubbed his thumb curiously over one. Sensitive, then, and DeBryn stroked them and kissed Morse – sliding his tongue into his mouth and letting Morse nip at his lips hungrily – until Morse’s fingers had started to dig into his back.

‘Come on,’ Morse huffed at last, trying to pull DeBryn onto him. And, like the previous times, DeBryn resisted. Morse squirmed. ‘I’m not going to break.’

‘No, only burst your stitches again,’ DeBryn replied, tartly, but it was difficult to be as sharp as he needed with Morse lying there looking at him with eyes gone dark and his hands stroking into the small of DeBryn’s back and making his toes curl.

But when Morse huffed impatiently DeBryn relented and slid closer, pressing a knee between Morse’s thighs until Morse’s cock pushed hard against his leg.

‘Here.’ DeBryn lowered his head to kiss Morse’s throat, cradling Morse’s head in one hand as his chin tilted back, exposing more skin. Morse’s throat smelled of soap, and traces of sweat, and dust. God only knew what he had been doing with himself, and DeBryn kissed his throat and let Morse rub against his thigh, his breath growing heavier as his cock twitched and firmed, until a particularly vigorous thrust drew a sharp noise from Morse that wasn’t entirely pleasure.

‘Oh Christ.’ DeBryn gripped Morse’s hip, stilling him, and Morse groaned in frustration.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Men who are “fine” don’t have my best needlework holding them together.’ But DeBryn slid his hand inwards from Morse’s hip, finding Morse hot and fully hard; he thumbed lightly at the soft head and watched Morse’s eyes flutter closed, his throat working frantically.

His hand, perhaps. But Morse was already moving again, his hips twitching and rolling as he tried to thrust into DeBryn’s touch, and DeBryn pressed his palm to Morse’s stomach, trying to hold him still through sheer force of will.

‘ _Really_ , Morse.’

A frustrated whine was his only reply, and DeBryn kissed him into silence. Silence, but not calmness: Morse’s hands slid over him, turning rough and grabbing in his impatience, and DeBryn pressed a last hard kiss to his flushed mouth and began to move down the bed.

‘What are you... oh.’ Morse’s hand settled on his hair as DeBryn nudged his nose into the traces of softness at Morse’s stomach, carefully skirting the edges of the clean white dressing. ‘Oh Max.’

It was rather wonderful to hear his name spoke like that. Morse’s voice gone throaty with want, his hips now carefully still under DeBryn’s mouth, and DeBryn nuzzled at the join of hip and thigh, letting Morse’s cock bump against his cheek and listening to Morse’s ragged breathing.

‘Let’s try this,’ DeBryn said, lifting his head to catch a glimpse of Morse watching him, cheeks flushed and white teeth nipping at his lip. ‘But you’ll need to stay still. And stay relaxed; if you tense up too much you’re going to pull at the stitches. Understood?’

Morse nodded silently – suddenly all meek compliance – and DeBryn hid a smile as he lowered his head to guide Morse’s erection into his mouth, arousal curling low and sharp in his belly at the noise Morse made, the way his knees fell open either side of DeBryn’s ribs, the tremble in Morse’s hands as they brushed his shoulders.

DeBryn bobbed his head, slicking Morse’s erection with saliva, and settled in to suck at him and listen to Morse moan heavily. It sounded as though it held as much relief as pleasure, and DeBryn gripped the base of his cock tightly and rubbed his tongue along the underside, paying particular attention to the head, soft and salt-wet against his tongue.

Like this he could hear Morse’s breathing growing ragged, feel the twitch in his thighs at a particularly pleasurable touch, and DeBryn closed his eyes. His own cock was aching, pressed between his body and the bed, and he rolled his hips a little, pushing down into the yielding surface and pleasure sparking through him.

He tried to remember, from last time, what Morse had liked, wanting to make it good for him. To spoil the fellow, just a bit. But it seemed that in this, at least, Morse was easily pleased: everything DeBryn did was met with a sigh, a caress to his shoulder, or a gentle press of Morse’s thigh against him. DeBryn went slowly; it was a heady thing to know himself the cause of Morse, for once, being rooted firmly in his body rather than his brain, and he suckled and mouthed at him, keeping everything as slow and soft and wet as he could, until Morse closed his eyes and one hand reached up to grip the pillow under his head.

DeBryn squeezed his fist around the base, letting saliva run out of his mouth to slick his grip, and Morse’s legs fell open wider as he moaned unselfconsciously. The stress of the past week was fairly melting off him, all the tension bleeding out of his limbs as his hips tilted into DeBryn’s steady hands, and his free hand beginning to stroke lightly at DeBryn’s nape.

There was a sudden tang of salt-musk on this tongue. There and gone in an instant, but DeBryn swallowed quickly, readying himself, and licked firmly at the spot just under the head as Morse’s breathing quickened, until he took his hand away to scrabble at the sheets, his cock thickening and then twitching sharply in DeBryn’s hand at the same instant that Morse gave a half-swallowed cry and spilled warm slickness across DeBryn’s tongue.

Morse’s hands – DeBryn noted, tilting his head to see out of the corner of his eye – had seized great fistfuls of the sheets, his chest heaving as he struggled to breathe through his pleasure, and DeBryn swallowed a couple of times and gentled his touch until he was lapping at Morse’s cock, cleaning him with delicate cat-licks while Morse sank back onto the bed and shivered.

DeBryn took a moment to wipe his mouth against Morse’s thigh, inhaling subtly and breathing in the faint scents of wool and paper overlying Morse’s own scent, before responding to the insistent pressure of Morse’s hand at his nape and moving up the bed.

Flushed as he was, Morse’s freckles stood out all the more plainly on his cheekbones and DeBryn traced them with gentle fingertips, wanting to preserve this memory of Morse pink and sleepy-eyed and smiling at DeBryn as though he were the most marvellous puzzle Morse had ever seen.

‘Want me to do for you?’ Morse cupped a hand between DeBryn’s legs, rubbing the heel of his hand along his cock. He leaned in, kissing DeBryn thoroughly, and DeBryn opened his mouth and let him, let Morse taste himself on DeBryn’s tongue, until Morse drew back, licking his lips slightly, his smile taking on a filthy edge. DeBryn shut his eyes, breathless at the feel of Morse’s deft fingers sliding along his length, cupping his balls.

‘Not really, no,’ he replied, with perfect honesty. ‘The idea of someone rolling around on top of my stitchwork doesn’t really do it for me.’ He opened his eyes to see the amused tilt to Morse’s eyebrows. ‘But... your hand?’

‘Of course.’ Then Morse was leaning away and DeBryn almost groaned, but it was only to fish the jar of Vaseline out of the bedside table and then Morse was sliding an arm under DeBryn’s neck to draw him close and murmur, ‘Alright now, come here,’ into his ear.

Morse’s other hand was reaching down between them, and Morse kissed DeBryn a second before his warm, slick hand closed around DeBryn’s cock and he moaned. Morse’s arm was warm and solid around his shoulders, his hand rubbing at DeBryn’s back and encouraging him to lean into Morse, and DeBryn curled close and splayed greedy hands across Morse’s slim waist, his narrow hips.

Lying down like this the small height difference evened out; DeBryn was perfectly able to kiss Morse while tangling their legs together and pressing hungrily forwards into the slick clasp of his hand. But he found he couldn’t quite manage kissing while Morse pulled steadily at his cock, not with any degree of finesse, and at last DeBryn ducked his head on the pretence of kissing Morse’s throat, hiding his face.

The mattress creaked as Morse shifted, exhaling slightly, and DeBryn blurted, ‘Don’t,’ as Morse rolled onto his uninjured side. ‘You’ll hurt yourself, don’t–’

‘I’m fine,’ Morse said. But there was no heat to it, only something that DeBryn dared to think sounded like amused exasperation, and he yielded to the press of Morse’s hand and leaned into him, tangling their legs together while Morse kissed him again.

Like this DeBryn felt surrounded, positively saturated with sex. Morse’s arms around him, Morse’s thigh pressing insistently between his own, and Morse’s hand steady and sure on his cock, pulling at it almost lazily with that odd squeezing, twisting motion he used, and DeBryn bore it as long as he could before gritting out, ‘Morse, _please_.’

‘Hmm.’ Morse’s breath fluttered against his temple, and DeBryn burrowed restlessly against him, need curling tightly in his hips, wanting only to finish. His hands were shaking, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and DeBryn reached down to lace his fingers with Morse’s and grip tightly, pulling at his cock in the faster, tighter rhythm that made his toes splay and his back arch.

‘Easy,’ DeBryn distantly heard Morse breathe against his hairline, twisting his wrist gently but inexorably out from under DeBryn’s hand, and DeBryn groaned as the bright edge of orgasm receded. ‘No, easy now.’

‘Fuck,’ DeBryn said, pressing his face to Morse’s prominent collarbone, sweat streaking his temple and slicking the small of his back where Morse’s hand was splayed. ‘Dear God, I need to... please.’

‘I will.’ Morse wriggled a little, and a hand caught DeBryn’s chin, coaxing his face up for a kiss, and DeBryn shut his eyes and returned the kiss as best he could, moaning at the wet slide of Morse’s tongue against his and almost biting at Morse’s soft mouth in his desperation. ‘Relax, I will.’

He resumed his leisurely strokes and DeBryn writhed against him, pressing closer, needing more. Until Morse used his thumb to rub tightly all around the head of DeBryn’s cock and DeBryn moaned, and then moaned again as the thought materialised: _This is how he touches himself. When he’s alone this is what he does... stops and starts..._ savours _it..._

Just the thought of Morse sprawled amid the sheets of his bed, one hand busy between his legs, the other stroking over his skin, his beautiful eyes tightly shut against whatever fantasy played out in his head... it was so arousing DeBryn moaned desperately, breaking away from Morse’s kiss to suck in air. The white heat of ecstasy was gathering tight in his balls, prickling up the inside of his thighs, and he grabbed Morse’s thigh, pinning Morse’s hand between the fellow’s thigh and DeBryn’s own frantic hips, rutting into the tight curl of his fingers, and gasped nonsensically – ‘I’m... oh God, yes, right there, I’m–’ – before orgasm rolled through him.

DeBryn clung to Morse as he came, pushing greedily into Morse’s hand, not caring that he was streaking his climax up Morse’s thigh and over his hip, until the last shudders faded and DeBryn groaned heavily, reaching down to still Morse’s touch.

His muscles quivered as though he had just run a mile, and DeBryn leaned into Morse and caught his breath, stilling the tremble in his hands where they rested on Morse’s hips. Dimly, he was aware of Morse nosing at his hair, his ear, and when he lifted his face Morse leaned in to catch his mouth in a kiss, smiling.

DeBryn returned the kiss as best he could, hands wandering, unable to stop touching all that delicious skin, and only drew back when he felt the clumsy pressure of Morse wiping at his belly with a corner of the sheet.

Strange that, after all they had done, this was the moment DeBryn was suddenly shy, unable to meet Morse’s gaze as he plucked the sheet out of Morse’s hand and finished the job himself. But Morse didn’t seem to notice, rolling onto his back with a sigh that sounded thoroughly sated.

DeBryn stole a glance at him. Loose-limbed and flushed, he looked a true hedonist. He also looked like a man who was settled for the night. Nothing like the last time, no mention of making his way home, and certainly no argument when DeBryn swallowed and murmured, ‘I’ll just get the light then, shall I?’

Morse made a sleepy, assenting sort of noise. He didn’t look as though he could move again, but after DeBryn had snapped off the bedside lamp the sheets rustled and Morse’s head settled heavy on his shoulder, an arm sliding around his waist.

DeBryn caught his breath. The last time he had been too preoccupied with the strangeness of it, and with negotiating Morse’s heavy bones and sharp points and wondering how on earth two bodies ever found a mutually comfortable sleeping position. But this time DeBryn was better able to take in the soft embrace, the warmth of Morse’s body all down his left-hand side, the gentle twitch and curl of Morse’s fingers as his brain slowly settled for the night. And it felt dangerously like... more. Like lovers, in fact.

Morse’s breath tickled his neck in a sigh, and DeBryn slowly curved an arm around Morse’s shoulders, stroking his fingertips against the hair softly curling at Morse’s nape, and closed his own eyes. The chap was simply used to sharing a bed, and this was automatic reflex; it would be foolish in the extreme to read into it. Had DeBryn forgotten what had happened on the last occasion? What Morse’s sleeping mind had driven him to say, freed of the guards placed around it in his waking hours?

Such thoughts weren’t simply nonsense, then, but downright foolish. This was already more than DeBryn had thought to want, and it was futile to want more, to want something he wasn’t going to get. Was it not already enough, more than enough, to know that he was the one Morse sought out when wounded, and in need of care and solace?

Even so a sigh escaped DeBryn, deep enough that Morse scuffled gently against him, making a sleepy, enquiring noise.

‘Nothing.’ Morse’s unruly hair tickled DeBryn’s jaw and DeBryn stroked his back, raising a drowsy murmur, and Morse tightened his arm briefly before relaxing completely. ‘Go to sleep.’

_And I’ll ask you no more_ , DeBryn thought to himself, suddenly weary, brushing his fingertips across the smooth skin of Morse’s temple, _for fear you should reply._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An earlier than usual update, before I go away for the weekend. Hope you all have a good one!


	5. Chapter 5

Morning light suited Morse, DeBryn decided. 

On this particular morning DeBryn had woken while Morse still dozed, sleeping the sleep of the thoroughly worn out after two enthusiastic rounds of sex last night, sprawled across two-thirds of the bed and taking up far more space than DeBryn would have believed possible of such a lean person. Yawning, DeBryn had sat up, settled himself against the headboard, and let memory unfold as his gaze drank in the long muscles of Morse’s bare back.

Morse had turned up at his door last night after DeBryn was barely halfway through listening to the first act of _Nabucco_ , bearing a bottle of Talisker and a wicked glint in his eye.

‘My stitches itch abominably,’ he had said, leaning against the doorframe with a devil-may-care slouch that DeBryn had never seen on him before but that he instantly decided suited him awfully well. ‘Thought you could take them out. And then–’ he lifted the Talisker, ‘I owe you, by now.’

DeBryn had let him in, and when one thing had led to another he had discovered that expensive Scotch tasted even better when smudged across his lips by Morse’s long fingers, and cleaned away the next instant by kisses.

The sun was creeping in around the edges of the curtains, lightening the room enough for DeBryn to pick out the freckles dusting Morse’s smooth shoulders. It was rather too early to be awake, in truth, but DeBryn’s sleep was usually disturbed when he switched from early to late shifts. He usually considered it something of an inconvenience, yet if this was to be the new penalty for being an early riser DeBryn would gladly take it.

A thin beam lay across Morse; for the past quarter of an hour DeBryn had been watching it move across his back, creeping upwards to his face, touching the fine hairs at his nape and burnishing them to gleaming copper, and catching the dusting of beard growth on his jaw.

Now it had reached his closed eyes, and DeBryn watched Morse’s face crumple in displeasure. He turned his face further into his pillow, away from the light; one hand kneaded restlessly at the bed next to him until he found DeBryn’s naked hip and Morse shifted over to press his face to it, burrowing against DeBryn and fighting the call of wakefulness.

Under the bedclothes DeBryn raised his knees to shield Morse’s face from the light, cupping a gentle hand over Morse’s head to wind his fingers through riotous bedhair, quietly pleased Morse was too drowsy to catch him smiling like a besotted fool.

Last night he had assured himself Morse’s injury from Gull had healed cleanly and, once the initial redness faded, he would be left with no more than a faint line as a reminder. While doing this, he had also made the serendipitous discovery of a particular spot just above the iliac crest that would make Morse positively melt with pleasure, if stroked for long enough with just the right amount of pressure.

He shifted slightly, feeling the pleasant ache of muscle exertion and the lingering thrum of sex. His body was unused to waking sated, but it was a welcome sensation.

A snuffle from the level of his hip made DeBryn look down to find Morse had opened an eye and was watching him: half-asleep but smiling as though he couldn’t believe his luck, all his sharp edges gone soft. DeBryn smiled back at him, stroking his hair and coiling a lock around a finger. ‘Morning.’

Morse only grunted vaguely in reply, but the next instant his hand closed around DeBryn’s wrist and pulled gently. Obeying the wordless command, DeBryn slid down the bed, lying on his side so Morse could curl in close, tucking his face into DeBryn’s neck as though he could deny the fact of the sun splitting the trees and the sparrows beginning to chirp.

When he met Morse – or rather, met him in a fashion he could safely disclose to others – DeBryn would never have taken him for the sort of hedonist who lay abed until all hours. And yet, as he considered his new knowledge of the chap, perhaps it wasn’t so surprising. Morse would knock back cheap Scotch but linger over more expensive stuff; he was fond of beauty, be it music or poetry or art. And more often than not DeBryn would find that Morse – given time and proper encouragement – could come twice in the time it took DeBryn to get off once, and then liked nothing better than to sink into DeBryn’s large bed and fall asleep, a limb or two flung possessively over DeBryn.

The knobs of Morse’s spine stood out faintly under DeBryn’s palm as he stroked his back absently, and Morse’s hair brushed the underside of his chin.

‘What’re you thinking?’ The words were muffled against DeBryn’s shoulder but just about intelligible, and Morse stirred, bumping his head on DeBryn’s chin as he drew back.

_Of you_ , DeBryn very nearly said. But he had more sense than that, and instead he murmured, ‘Oh, nothing much. Wondering what’s in store today.’

‘Mmm.’ Morse’s hair looked as though birds had been nesting in it; DeBryn tried to suppress his amusement but Morse blinked, squinting, and caught him at it. ‘Hmmph.’

He knuckled at his eyes and stretched hugely, lifting his arms over his head to plant his hands flat against the headboard and arching his spine until his ribs stood out in sharp relief. When he resettled himself he looked distinctly more awake, fixing DeBryn with the unblinking stare of a cat. ‘What is, then? In store for you?’

‘Not much.’ The twist of hair under Morse’s arm was slightly darker than that on his head. Coarser, too; DeBryn was struck with a sense-memory of touching it last night, stroking curious fingers through it while he used lips and tongue on Morse’s nipples and Morse sighed with pleasure under his touch.

DeBryn swallowed. He had woken half-hard, and lying with Morse’s bare thighs brushing his own and memories of last night heating his blood was doing nothing to calm him. ‘Reports, I suppose. I’ve put them off long enough. And you?’

Morse made no reply. He had reached out to rest his fingers on DeBryn’s collarbone, and as DeBryn spoke Morse trailed his touch across to the deltoid muscles, and down along his bicep. Last night his arms and shoulders had seemed quite the objects of interest; God knew why, but DeBryn couldn’t pretend it hadn’t been flattering.

‘What?’ Distracted, Morse had caught DeBryn’s hand in his and was examining it closely: his clipped fingernails, the webbing between his fingers.

‘I asked what you’re doing today,’ DeBryn said, bemused but charmed as Morse gently pressed their palms together, measuring his own fingers against DeBryn’s rather shorter ones.

‘Nothing of interest.’ Morse slid his fingers through DeBryn’s: warm, his fingertips dry and slightly rough.

A memory stirred. ‘That’s not what I read in the paper. Isn’t it the royal visit today? To that factory – British Electric, was it? British Imperial?’

‘Oh yes.’ Morse had closed his eyes again and, unseen, DeBryn smirked. Typical Morse. ‘That.’

‘Yes,’ DeBryn said dryly as Morse sighed, curling close again, and DeBryn automatically lifted his arm and let Morse press close before settling it around him. Lying on his side like this Morse’s ribs were far too prominent, and once again DeBryn thought about inviting the fellow over for dinner. ‘The station hasn’t any part in that?’

‘Only uniform looking after security,’ Morse muttered, his fingernails tracing ticklish patterns over DeBryn’s back. He shifted, his bony knees bumping lightly against DeBryn’s. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘You’re not sorry to be missing out on meeting Her Royal Highness?’ DeBryn asked, resting his chin on Morse’s head and feeling him snort. ‘No, I thought not. You know, Morse, there are moments when I detect distinctly republican tendencies in you.’

DeBryn squinted over at the clock. His distance vision was poor, but he was able to make out the time: fifteen minutes until the alarm sounded and he settled himself more comfortably, pressing his mouth and nose to Morse’s hair and inhaling unobtrusively, lust stirring low in his belly at the now-familiar scent of his hair.

‘In that case, if you’ve no plans and Inspector Thursday can spare you, there’s a new pub I’m going to try for lunch.’ A pause, and DeBryn tried to sound casual as he added, just in case Morse hadn’t got the message: ‘You’re welcome to join me, if you like.’

Morse stirred and made an interested noise, doubtless seduced by the promise of a new pub, and DeBryn bit his lip but couldn’t stop the flush of warmth in his chest. Truth was he craved Morse’s company: his bookishness, his thinly veneered disdain for popular culture, his acerbic remarks on his fellow officers.

‘Excellent.’ DeBryn struggled for a moment before succumbing to temptation. ‘In that case probably best if you meet me in the mortuary. I’ve a bit of an oozy one to do this morning, not sure how long clean-up will take.’

They were twined so closely together that the tension blooming through Morse’s body rang clear as a bell, and when DeBryn pressed, ‘Alright?’ Morse lifted his head.

‘Um...’ But at the sight of the anxious line between Morse’s brows, DeBryn couldn’t suppress his smirk and watched in delight as Morse’s face relaxed.

‘That’s not funny,’ he grumbled, prodding a sharp elbow into DeBryn’s ribs, but amusement crinkled his eyes and touched his mouth. His soft, kiss-swollen mouth, and DeBryn couldn’t help reaching to brush his face.

‘Well, if you’re going to be difficult.’ DeBryn rolled onto his back, pulling Morse with him to lie half-atop him, and cupped Morse’s face, his heart singing when Morse closed his eyes and leaned into DeBryn’s hand, cat-like. ‘I suppose I could meet you at the pub.’

The faint amusement bloomed into a proper smile, wide and unguardedly happy in the morning light, and DeBryn could do nothing but return it foolishly until Morse leaned in for a kiss.

His mouth was faintly sour from sleep, but DeBryn cradled Morse’s jaw in his hand and returned kiss after kiss, achingly happy, and when Morse finally broke away to nose at DeBryn’s throat he tilted his chin up readily. ‘I can see I’ll have to find more new pubs, if this is my repayment.’

‘Mmm.’ Morse’s soft mouth moved up, tucking kisses into the hollow just beneath DeBryn’s ear. ‘I like kissing you.’ A sensual tickle of lips against DeBryn’s ear lobe made DeBryn shiver, arousal rippling through him like a current. ‘You’re. Hmm.’ The velvet brush of Morse closing his lips around it. ‘ _Very_ good at it.’

‘Oh,’ was all DeBryn could manage by way of reply, but it was enough to earn him another kiss from Morse. This one went on rather longer, and DeBryn’s hands had wandered down to Morse’s hips by the time Morse broke away and DeBryn could murmur, ‘You too.’

Morse rubbed his cheek against DeBryn’s, leaning close to his ear again to murmur, around kisses: ‘Once he drew – with one long kiss – my whole soul through my lips.’

It was an exceptionally bookish way of asking for more kisses, yet DeBryn wouldn’t have him any other way and he cupped Morse’s nape and turned his head to find his mouth once again.

‘Your kisses,’ Morse mumbled, ‘and your mouth, too.’ He traced a fingertip over the curve of DeBryn’s lower lip, and DeBryn pursed his lips against it in an absent kiss. ‘I like your mouth.’

Heat pooled in DeBryn’s groin, remembering just how much Morse had liked his mouth last night when DeBryn had been sprawled between his thighs, sucking him and revelling in the scent of him, the varied textures of his skin. Morse had pressed his hands to his face, seeming unable to watch, but his moans had spilled from him like water.

‘Your arms.’ Morse shifted, settling himself more firmly on top of DeBryn, bracing his weight on one forearm and running his other hand along DeBryn’s upper arm. ‘I like your arms, too.’ He caressed the muscle, sliding his palm down and along DeBryn’s forearm to tangle their fingers together, and tugged on their clasp until DeBryn lifted his arm and Morse could kiss the soft skin on the inside of his forearm, where the veins ran faintly visible beneath sensitive skin. ‘Sometimes you roll your sleeves up in work and I can’t even...’ More kisses, this time interspersed with tiny bites that barely grazed the skin.

‘Indeed?’ The words – combined with Morse’s weight on him, the familiar scents of soap and skin – sent desire flaring hot through his chest and licking along his nerve endings, and DeBryn shifted slightly, parting his knees until Morse could settle himself more comfortably between them. ‘I didn’t think you even noticed.’

‘Oh no.’ Morse glanced at him, mouth now brushing the rise of the ulna, the carpal bones cradled securely in their tangle of ligaments, all complexity hidden away beneath smooth skin. Morse seemed amused at something. ‘I notice, believe me. Always.’ Abandoning DeBryn’s hand, Morse leaned in for another kiss, nipping gently at his mouth. ‘It’s very distracting.’

He was hard too, and DeBryn suppressed a small moan at the sensation of Morse’s arousal pushing against his hip.

‘You’re fairly distracting yourself,’ DeBryn muttered, his hands stroking Morse’s back and settling in the hollow of his lumbar curve.

The compliment drew a smile from Morse, and DeBryn kissed him again. Of course the fellow was distracting; when he was in the room DeBryn could barely look at anything else, and with each poem or story he read, each piece of music he listened to, DeBryn found himself wondering what Morse would think of it, wanting to gift him with the book or record just to know his opinion. And heaven forbid the fellow express a desire for the moon, or the Koh-i-Noor, or something equally impossible: DeBryn had a resigned certainty he would quite probably have to try and _get_ the wretched thing for him.

Morse shifted and DeBryn inhaled deeply, suddenly breathless for reasons that had nothing to do with Morse’s welcome weight on his chest. Morse braced his forearms on the pillows, brushing DeBryn’s cheek with his fingertips as he started to thrust lazily against DeBryn, and DeBryn braced his heels against the bed to provide resistance even as he groaned in frustration.

‘The alarm is going to go in five minutes.’

‘Mmm.’ Morse kissed him, a suggestive lick of his tongue across DeBryn’s lip. Lower down, his cock slid heavy against DeBryn’s, grinding against the tip of DeBryn’s arousal for an excruciatingly pleasurable second that turned DeBryn’s knees to water. ‘You could turn it off.’

‘You’ll be late.’

Morse snorted into the crook of DeBryn’s throat, rubbing his morning beard growth against sensitive skin, sending gooseflesh skittering over DeBryn’s chest and arms.

‘You’ll make _me_ late,’ DeBryn tried, half-hearted at best as he arched up and bit back a moan when Morse’s cock pushed slickly against his own. ‘And for my meeting with Kemp, too.’

Morse’s thumb was rubbing firmly back and forth over his nipple, and DeBryn couldn’t stop a hungry noise, his hands fluttering down to stroke Morse’s waist, his hips.

‘Is he the rude one you don’t like?’ Morse asked, all innocence as his hips rolled and pushed against DeBryn’s. ‘Who always keeps you waiting, and who you said needed taken down a peg?’

Despite himself, despite the desperately erotic sensation of Morse’s muscles bunching and flexing as he moved under DeBryn’s hands, DeBryn huffed a laugh. ‘Well remembered.’

No use pretending he wasn’t going to do as Morse wanted, not when his hands were firmly on Morse’s arse holding him close and encouraging him, and DeBryn stretched over towards the clock. He couldn’t quite reach and eventually Morse leaned over, getting an elbow under himself, and turned off the alarm, returning the next instant to cup DeBryn’s face and feather kisses across his cheeks, his mouth.

‘This is foolishness,’ DeBryn said, squeezing Morse’s thighs lightly between his knees and listening to Morse’s small noise.

Morse ducked his head, nuzzling at DeBryn’s temple as his long fingers worked their way under DeBryn’s skull to cradle his head. ‘Ah, but kisses are a better fate than wisdom.’

And as DeBryn reached lower to stroke Morse’s thighs, loving the noise this drew from his flushed throat, the insistent press of his hips, he couldn’t help but think the poets may have had it aright.

\----------

When DeBryn got the call – shortly after a lunch spent attempting to convince Morse of the merits of Cubism, only to meet such emphatic refusal DeBryn had instead left half-convinced it was all a load of tosh – the address chimed strangely in his mind as he wrote it down. After he hung up, he stared at his notebook for a moment before he placed it. British Imperial: the factory, of course. So it seemed the royal visit hadn’t gone off entirely without a hitch, then.

At the factory DeBryn was directed to a small storeroom. No doubt it was murder, and a rather messy one too, and he began his examination with his usual care. When the police arrived DeBryn nodded to Thursday and Jakes, watching in veiled amusement as Morse dawdled in at the back, taking two steps into the room before backing up swiftly, visibly swallowing. DeBryn watched himself to see that – although he paled – he kept his feet, and looked away. Too long a glance and he would betray himself, he knew it; he daren’t let himself recall the kisses of that morning for Thursday was as sharp as they came, and Jakes may not have Morse’s careless brilliance but he was a good sergeant.

Rather more unexpected was CS Bright, thrumming with agitation, tossing an irritable look over his shoulder at Morse lingering uncomfortably by the door.

‘No chance it could have been an accident?’ Bright asked. Almost barked, in fact, cutting across whatever Morse had been about to voice, and DeBryn saw Thursday draw breath but couldn’t suppress his own tart reply. ‘Not unless he picked himself up and dragged himself in here.’

Really. Morse might be squeamish but at least he didn’t ask damn stupid questions, and as DeBryn looked back down at the corpse he glimpsed a flash of a smile from Morse over Bright’s shoulder.

It was easy to tune them out after that, with so many things to note and record, none of which he could afford to miss, and when Bright stormed off DeBryn sighed in relief and bent to go through the pockets of the deceased. A stopwatch was in the first one he tried: large, good-quality. Rather at odds with the ragged length of fabric attached to it, in fact.

Footsteps on the stairs made him glance up and DeBryn nodded at Morse as he re-entered, cautious, and sidled up to the body, pale but determined.

Well, good behaviour deserved a reward, didn’t it? And this may be slightly unusual as a courting gift, but no more so than the man himself.

‘There is one other thing. Not that it’s likely to be much use to you, but–’ DeBryn drew near to Morse, watching Morse’s body lean in towards him, his head tilt enquiringly, ‘this was in his pocket.’

DeBryn let the stopwatch hang, and Morse’s long fingers lifted it delicately from his hand. Capable of such gentleness, despite the strength of grip they had demonstrated on DeBryn’s bare shoulder just the previous night, and DeBryn watched Morse frown, fancying he could hear the cogs of that brain turning furiously.

DeBryn inhaled subtly, drinking in the scent of his own soap off Morse’s warm skin, eyes tracing the line of his jaw and desire stirring anew. Twice last night, and once this morning, yet he wanted the fellow again already; hang the crime scene, he would have liked nothing better than to lock the door, kneel at Morse’s feet, and see how long it would take the chap to finish under DeBryn’s most skilled and concentrated attentions.

He swallowed hard, trying to master himself. The coroner’s van would be here any moment, and it was out of the question that he be found all but panting with lust over the chap, like a dog in heat. And yet DeBryn lingered close, traced his fingertips over the back of Morse’s hand.

‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ DeBryn murmured, intimate as befitted a lover, no-one to overhear them save the dead as he slid his fingertips under Morse’s shirt cuff and against the faint veins of his wrist.

For a brief moment Morse’s wrist turned to dip his fingertips into the gentle cup of DeBryn’s welcoming palm, and in his heated glance DeBryn saw a flash of his tousle-haired bedmate of that morning. Morse was handsome enough when going about his everyday business but like this he was irresistible; DeBryn closed his fingers to trap Morse’s against his palm briefly, not quite daring to lean in for a kiss, but when they fluttered in his clasp DeBryn opened his hand and released the fellow.

The next moment Morse stepped back, cradling the stopwatch carefully, and straightened his spine, a touch of reluctance in his movements but otherwise every inch the professional. ‘Doctor.’

DeBryn inclined his head gravely, masking how Morse’s response to his touch had set his heart to soaring. ‘Morse.’

\----------

More often than not Morse came alone to collect post-mortem results, so it was singular misfortune that had Thursday preceding him into the morgue where DeBryn stood ready and waiting, groaning inwardly at the knowledge that he wouldn’t get a moment alone with Morse.

It had been twenty-four hours since DeBryn had last seen Morse, standing injudiciously close to the fellow in the poky storeroom at the factory; the time had crept by as though it were a week and now just the sight of him made DeBryn’s heart lift, made him want to smile for no reason.

Yet he summarised his report to Thursday with his usual terse crispness, blithely ignoring Morse lurking in the background, hands shoved in pockets and his gaze turned firmly away from the covered tray of instruments laid out ready for the afternoon’s work.

When he had finished Thursday nodded to him, taking the report. ‘Thank you, Doctor.’

‘Inspector.’ DeBryn busied himself shuffling his papers together as Thursday left before, as the door swung shut after him and Morse reached for it, adding, ‘Morse. A word.’

His heart pounded but fortunately Thursday didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow down, in fact, and Morse glanced at his retreating figure before turning. ‘Yes?’

DeBryn swallowed, nerves fluttering in his stomach. He had had a different query ready, just in case Thursday had decided anything the pathologist had to say to his constable concerned him also, some trivial point about the late man’s belongings. But he set it aside and voiced his real question. ‘I had in mind. That is. Wondered... whether you. Um.’

As DeBryn faltered Morse shifted his weight, obviously impatient, and DeBryn swallowed hard. He hadn’t been this nervous even for his finals examinations; this may be the first time he had invited Morse over to his house – as opposed to Morse turning up on the doorstep out of the blue – but that was no reason for him to regress to his awkward teenage years.

DeBryn squared his shoulders and tried again. ‘There’s a rather good play on the wireless this evening. And I’ve barely made inroads on that bottle of Talisker you so graciously bestowed on me–’

Here DeBryn cut himself off, because it was unnecessary to continue when the answer was written so clearly in every line of Morse’s body.

‘I’m. Ah.’ Morse pulled at his earlobe, and shifted his weight. ‘On call, this evening.’

‘I see.’ As though that had stopped policemen before, as though they didn’t give out the number of the local pub as though it were their own. DeBryn took the folder of paperwork over to the bench, temporarily unable to look at Morse’s face. Perhaps it had been too forward to invite Morse over again when he had just spent the night so recently; perhaps DeBryn was being greedy, asking for more when he already had so much. ‘Well then, no matter, it was just a thought.’

But then again, if there was any officer who would sit diligently next to his phone at home, waiting for it to ring, it would be Morse. DeBryn opened his mouth, ready to offer the use of his own number, when Morse added, ‘And also I’ve. Um. Might have a date, sort of.’

DeBryn froze, his heart racing, its beat suddenly loud in his ears. ‘I see.’

‘She’s a friend. An old friend.’

The edges of the paper labels on the stack of filing drawers were peeling. How odd he had never noticed before. ‘Morse–’

‘Inspector Thursday wants me to,’ Morse said, his words almost falling over themselves. ‘We knew each other when I was with– When I was up, I mean. Except, she’s connected to the case, I think, but I–’

‘That’s fine.’ DeBryn shuffled his papers back into order, tapping them on the bench to align the corners with mathematical neatness.

Behind him, he heard Morse’s footsteps approach before Morse leaned a hip against the bench, looking at him. ‘I don’t... um.’

Such a novelty to hear Morse so unsure of himself. Just a shame DeBryn wasn’t better able to appreciate it.

‘You’ve no need to explain yourself to me.’ DeBryn smoothed a sheet of paper that refused to lie flat, noting distantly he had a smudge of ink on a forefinger.

Morse shifted, ducking his head, trying to look into DeBryn’s face. ‘But–’

‘Morse!’

DeBryn turned away quickly and Morse jumped at Thursday’s shout, barely putting a respectable distance between them when Thursday put his head back around the door. ‘How d’you expect me to get back to the station with no car keys and no bagman?’

‘Yes sir. Sorry, sir.’

His attention still focussed resolutely in front of him, DeBryn nevertheless heard Morse draw breath. Yet with Thursday standing there he could hardly speak frankly, and a moment later he was gone, their twin footsteps receding into the distance as DeBryn took a deep, careful breath. That had been unexpected.

And yet it shouldn’t have been, really. He thought he knew the girl, he was sure he had seen her around the factory. Dark hair, green eyes. Slim. Elegant. Everything DeBryn was not, in fact; doubtless she and Morse would make an absurdly striking couple.

He flattened his palms against the brushed steel bench, letting its chill seep into his skin and restore his equilibrium, wishing futilely that it could travel up his arms to ease the strange pangs in his chest.

\----------

The play was usually poor quality that evening; more than once DeBryn found his concentration lapsing and his attention wandering to the empty armchair opposite. Morse would have pulled it to pieces by now: all the improbable plot twists and inconsistent characterisations, and DeBryn shook his head at his own maudlin thoughts and reached for his coffee cup.

It was difficult to focus, though, and after an hour DeBryn was hopelessly lost. He had spent too much time in his own thoughts and was now ignorant of why the timing of the gardener’s visit had been of such importance, and what the hearth rug had to do with anything, and it was with a certain sense of relief that he heard the telephone shrill its summons.

When he answered and listened to the message, however, he almost groaned with the intense desire to hang up and return to the incomprehensible play. Bloody British Imperial again. Was he never to be free of the place?

The scene, when he arrived, was almost textbook, and DeBryn went through his examination with a sense of relief despite his acute awareness of Morse lingering in the background. But after he handed the stolen plans to Thursday and watched him stalk off – a man on the warpath, if DeBryn was any judge – he turned and almost tripped over Morse, hovering near him.

‘Morse?’

‘Doctor.’

Morse shuffled his feet, one hand lifting to tug at his ear. He glanced at the huddle of uniformed officers, and DeBryn needed no prompting to turn his back to them and take a few steps away under the pretence of packing up his kit.

‘Look, I just...’ Morse spoke quickly, breathlessly, ‘feel I ought to–’

‘Morse,’ DeBryn interrupted. The chap really had no sense at all, standing just yards away from his brother officers and discussing this, with the buzz and clatter of the factory only tenuous cover. Best to shut down this line of conversation immediately; it was like poking an open wound. ‘I’m under no illusions.’

Beside him, Morse went very still. ‘No...’

‘Indeed.’ DeBryn took his glasses off, polishing them with his handkerchief as the ache in his chest expanded. He forced himself to speak. ‘I have no expectations of you, and anticipate none in return. You are therefore perfectly free to do whatever you choose, with whomsoever you choose. As am I.’ He paused, licking his lips. ‘Am I understood?’

He as being overly verbose, he knew; if Morse was paying attention – and had bothered to note DeBryn’s habits the way DeBryn had noted his – he would know the depth of DeBryn’s upset. At last DeBryn pressed his lip together tightly to stem the flow of words and, bracing himself, he slid his glasses back onto his nose and turned to Morse, meeting his gaze.

‘Yes.’ Morse was very pale, his blue eyes enormous, a stripe of pink along each cheekbone. He licked his lips. ‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Good. Now.’ DeBryn jerked his chin to where Thursday had almost reached the other side of the factory floor. ‘I suggest you catch up with the inspector, do your damn job, and leave me to do mine.’

Morse stepped back, his chin lifting, flushing a little at the rebuke. ‘Doctor.’

‘Morse.’

\----------

As Saturday afternoons went, DeBryn found the mortuary was as good a place as any to spend them. Not that it made much of a difference, as the dead made no distinction between days of the week, but there was something about the quality of the silence.

DeBryn packed his papers away, falling into pensive mood. He was reluctant to return home; his house never usually felt empty but just now it was rather too quiet for comfort. If he went home he would end up dwelling on the memory of Morse arriving late that morning, sidling in behind Thursday and Jakes as though none of them would notice his rumpled hair, his kiss-reddened mouth, the crooked knot of his tie. It had left DeBryn in a sour mood; an afternoon’s work hadn’t restored his spirits as it usually would, but it helped enough that he decided to spend a quiet hour in the pub with his book on the way home.

It was a pleasant enough plan, but it died approximately five minutes after DeBryn walked in the door and almost immediately spotted two familiar figures tucked in a corner. Before he could turn around and leave, Thursday lifted a hand in greeting and, cursing inwardly, left with no gracious way to refuse, DeBryn went unwillingly to join them.

DeBryn liked the Inspector, he wasn’t a bad sort, and between them they more or less managed to keep up a conversation while Morse slouched at one end of the table. He seemed to be drinking rather a lot; ordering Scotch for himself when it was his round and scowling at the pints of Radford’s Thursday placed pointedly in front of him.

The relationship between them was something between superior and junior, and avuncular and protégé. Certainly there was something up with Morse; Thursday was – to all intents and purposes – ignoring his brooding silence, but DeBryn didn’t miss his concerned glances at the chap.

Happily, though, whatever was going on wasn’t his problem to deal with. Or so he thought, up until the moment he was at the bar – standing his round – and felt a touch on his arm.

‘Doctor.’ Thursday looked unusually awkward. ‘I have to leave,’ he added, ‘Saturday supper with the family. But I don’t want to leave Morse alone.’

‘Oh.’ DeBryn’s heart sank, seeing where this was going. ‘Well actually, I myself have to–’

‘Not for much longer, he’ll be ready to go home and sleep it off in another hour or so,’ Thursday said. ‘The lad just needs a friend. Someone to sit with him. Would you?’ He glanced at the book DeBryn had stuffed in his pocket and not opened. ‘You could probably read, to be honest, he wouldn’t mind. Just needs not to be left on his own. I wouldn’t ask but... you know.’ Thursday shrugged helplessly, a man caught between duty and family. ‘I would invite the lad along, but I know already he won’t come.’

DeBryn sighed, not making any effort not to sound put-upon. ‘Fine.’

It was small consolation that Morse looked equally put out as Thursday returned to collect hat and coat, and after he had said his goodbyes a rather awkward silence fell.

‘DeBryn.’

‘Morse.’

Morse dropped his eyes to the pint glasses in front of him, the nearly empty one and the full one DeBryn placed in front of him just a few moments ago. He lifted the first, drained the last inch in the bottom, and reached for the next. His movements were slightly unsteady, enough that DeBryn wondered how many pints he had consumed already, to say nothing of the spirits.

The fellow really ought to eat something, both his stomach and his liver would thank him for it, but DeBryn held his tongue. It wasn’t his place to offer unsolicited advice. A week ago, perhaps, but now he merely took out his book, opened it, and silently began to read. If Morse was in one of his moods then DeBryn wasn’t going to coax him out of it.

Next to him Morse sighed and moved restlessly, his legs shifting in their untidy splay. ‘Agatha Christie. Really?’

DeBryn glanced at him over the tops of his glasses. Morse was just at the edge of his clear distance vision; behind him the pub disappeared into a sea of brown-grey-green smudges, making him stand out all the more vibrant against it. ‘It’s a Saturday, Morse, which means one pursues slightly frivolous pastimes one usually wouldn’t. Surely even you’ve heard of the concept.’

A faint scowl was Morse’s response to this, and for a moment DeBryn couldn’t think what had been so very cutting in his reply as to prompt that, until he looked again. At Morse, sitting alone on an Saturday evening, determinedly drinking while the pub filled up with couples: talking, laughing, flirting.

Ah.

DeBryn bit his lip and silently told himself not to ask. It was none of his business, and Morse wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion – the mood he was in. But Morse had seen DeBryn’s eyes flicker over the rest of the pub and across the empty space at his side, and before DeBryn could return to his book Morse spoke. ‘She wasn’t interested.’

DeBryn drew a long breath, picking up his glass and wishing he hadn’t switched to soda water two drinks ago, planning to drive home.

Opposite him Morse mirrored the action, taking a long pull at his pint and effortlessly swallowing a third of it, his slim throat working.

‘Said I wasn’t ready for a relationship. That I was still in love with– Someone else.’

Morse must be a little drunk, that was the only explanation, and DeBryn rubbed at his forehead, trying to hide his face. Of all the people Morse could have chosen as confidante... did he think DeBryn could sit here like an automaton and listen to details, and feel nothing?

‘She said–’

‘Morse.’ DeBryn hadn’t intended to snap, merely to stop whatever ill-advised confession was about to tumble out next, but Morse shut his mouth and gave him an affronted look.

Bugger this for a lark. DeBryn had agreed to sit by Morse while he drank, he hadn’t said anything about sitting docile and allowing Morse to torment him, and he tipped the rest of his glass down his throat.

‘I need to leave now,’ DeBryn lied bluntly. He set his glass down and pushed it away, close to Morse’s long fingers cradling his own half-empty glass. ‘There’s a lift on offer if you come now. Otherwise it’ll be the bus, or walking.’

Thankfully Morse stirred; despite his irritation, DeBryn hadn’t been entirely sanguine about abandoning him after his promise to Thursday. He knocked back the rest of his pint before gathering his legs under him and rising, the slightest wobble in his knees that DeBryn affected not to see.

Outside the cool air was refreshing, like a splash of water after the pub’s smoky fug, and DeBryn inhaled gratefully. In the car Morse rubbed his hands together and jammed them between his knees. Of course the fool had come out with just a thin coat, as though the first nip of winter wasn’t in the air, and without looking at him DeBryn reached over to flick the car’s heater on and turn it up to maximum.

The drive was silent, broken only by Morse’s quiet directions; he lived in one of the more run-down parts of the city, and DeBryn noted the progressive dilapidation of streets and houses, until Morse nodded at a green door in the middle of a terrace, set back from the road slightly. ‘Just here, thanks.’

DeBryn pulled over and parked. ‘Goodbye, then.’

Morse didn’t move. Along the street the warm light from the houses spilled onto the pavement, families inside enjoying their weekends. Next to him, Morse picked silently at his thumbnail and DeBryn suppressed a sigh. He hadn’t thought the fellow a maudlin sort of drunk. ‘Morse?’

‘Frivolous pursuits, you said.’ Morse’s voice was low but clear; he sounded altogether sharper than his appearance suggested, and DeBryn mentally lowered his estimate of Morse’s alcohol intake.

‘Yes.’ DeBryn gestured encouragingly to Morse’s front door, with its cracked steps and column of names pasted next to an assortment of buzzers. When Morse didn’t move, DeBryn thought briefly – wistfully – about opening the passenger door and bodily tipping him out.

‘Acquaint yourself with the concept of sacred idleness. Listen to Gilbert and Sullivan. Read Austen. What you will.’

‘Hmm.’ Now Morse moved but it was to turn to face DeBryn, so suddenly that DeBryn almost recoiled against the door, and when Morse’s hand settled on his leg DeBryn’s stomach fluttered, heat blooming over his skin. ‘I’ve another sort in mind, if you’ve no other plans.’

‘Morse.’ DeBryn’s voice failed. His body was responding already, to nothing more than that simple touch of sensitive fingers curling gently against his upper thigh. 

Inwardly, recent events had left DeBryn raw, and not entirely in the mood. Morse had clearly been denied his choice of bed partner for the evening; of course he would turn to first available person, he could hardly be expected to do otherwise. If DeBryn had any dignity he would decline and withdraw, leaving Morse alone rather than permitting himself to be used as a convenient outlet.

Yet he rather suspected that his first refusal would also be his last; if he turned Morse away now then he knew, with an odd certainty, that the fellow would never ask again. And memories of his lean body and wicked mouth, his pleasure noises, sent heat simmering under DeBryn’s skin, along with an intense desire to experience all those things again.

In short: this was a mistake, of course it was. But it was a mistake DeBryn’s body was clamouring to make.

Morse watched him, all wide eyes and soft mouth, and when DeBryn silently laid his hand over Morse’s – not pushing it away, but rather holding it in place – Morse’s lips curled upwards in triumph and he leaned in to claim a kiss.

It was a clumsy thing; Morse tasted overwhelmingly of beer and he bumped DeBryn’s glasses askew, but nevertheless DeBryn clutched a handful of Morse’s hair and returned his kiss sloppily, arousal searing through him like fire across a touchpaper. Morse made a soft noise into his mouth, the hand on DeBryn’s thigh shifting under his palm and sliding higher, dipping between his legs, and DeBryn shoved Morse away with a ragged gasp even as his cock throbbed and stiffened so quickly it was very nearly painful.

‘Not here,’ DeBryn got out, gripping Morse’s narrow wrist. It may well be nightfall, and the nearest pool of streetlight some yards away, but anyone walking past could see perfectly well what they were up to. ‘Alright, yes, but not here, you fool.’

Apparently Morse didn’t mind insults if there was a chance of sex afterwards, for he merely curled his knuckles against DeBryn’s trouser front – drawing a shudder from DeBryn – before opening his door and sliding out of the car, drawing the folds of his coat diplomatically close around himself.

DeBryn followed with rather less grace, trying to look as though he were a concerned friend helping a chap home, and not as though he were barely restraining himself from grabbing Morse’s hips and rubbing up against that perfect arse. In the forgiving shelter of the porch Morse fumbled with his keys, dropping his hand briefly to brush over DeBryn’s trouser front, making DeBryn bite his lip against a noise that wanted to escape.

Inside Morse’s tiny bedsit a large bookcase was jammed awkwardly just inside the doorway and the walls were a horrendous dark green, making the place look even pokier than it already was, but that was all DeBryn was permitted to notice before Morse was on him, pushing the door shut with an impatient bang and crowding DeBryn back against the wall for kisses.

Frankly the place could have been painted sky-blue pink and DeBryn wouldn’t have cared, and he tangled his fingers in Morse’s hair and tried to meet him, to give as good as he got. Morse’s hands were everywhere: stroking his waist and burrowing under his jacket and pulling his shirt out of his trousers, pausing to cup briefly between DeBryn’s legs where his cock was pushing hard against his zipper. DeBryn opened his mouth for Morse’s hungry kisses, the insistent slide of his tongue into DeBryn’s mouth, and at last planted his hands on Morse’s chest to push him gently but firmly away.

‘Clothes,’ he said, when Morse opened his mouth with a protest already half-formed. ‘Take your clothes off, for God’s sake. Or did you just want a quick pull up against the wall?’

This prompted action, however Morse reached not for his own shirt buttons but for DeBryn’s. He went after them like a man possessed, tugging at DeBryn’s pullover as though it offended him to wait a moment longer, and DeBryn reciprocated. He had to break away when Morse, losing the last of his patience, opened DeBryn’s collar and cuffs, pushed his jacket off, and then grabbed pullover, shirt, and vest, and simply lifted the lot straight off over DeBryn’s head.

It was efficient, DeBryn had to admit. He didn’t recall Morse being in such a damned hurry the last time, but as he emerged from the tangle of clothes Morse had already abandoned DeBryn’s clothes to loosen the rest of his own buttons and shrug shirt and jacket off to let them lie where they fell.

Morse’s bare shoulders were freckled, and lean with muscle. Not DeBryn’s first sight of them but it had yet to lose its appeal, and he stroked his palms along the trapezius muscles and cupped the points of Morse’s shoulders in his hands while Morse tucked two fingers behind DeBryn’s belt buckle and steered him ineptly over to the single bed pushed up against the wall.

His shoes, trousers, and underwear were stripped off him by Morse’s clumsy fingers, and DeBryn let Morse push him down onto the bed and watched Morse deal with his own clothing.

The woollen blanket was coarse under DeBryn’s back, against his bare arse, but before he could get under the sheet and blankets Morse stripped off his shorts and crawled on top of DeBryn, settling the whole lanky height of himself on top of DeBryn. He plucked DeBryn’s glasses off before pressing him back into the bed and DeBryn gripped Morse’s back, the long muscles shifting lightly under his palms, as they kissed again. After a moment DeBryn reached lower, settling on Morse’s arse to pull him close, and Morse groaned softly.

DeBryn cupped his hands, gentling and stroking Morse’s lean hips and flanks until Morse broke away to nose at DeBryn’s throat, panting warmly against his shoulder. Morse smelled of soap and aftershave, when DeBryn ducked his head to inhale. A subtle masculine scent that fairly made his mouth water, and DeBryn dug a heel into the bed and slanted his hips upward, rubbing his cock against Morse’s. He was hard already, the pair of them sliding heavy and urgent against each other, the drag of dry skin somewhere between uncomfortable and pleasurable, and DeBryn spread his knees either side of Morse’s thighs and squeezed his arse, and Morse’s groan mingled with his own.

Had he been with many other men? DeBryn daren’t ask, it seemed far too impertinent a question for men who were only... whatever they were to each other. But DeBryn was half-mad to know whether Morse’s reaction to this touch was a man discovering a new pleasure, or one recalling past experiences.

DeBryn didn’t have much of a chance to touch before Morse slid down the bed further, nuzzling at DeBryn’s chest and licking across a nipple. DeBryn made a soft noise, his hand flying automatically to cup Morse’s head, and Morse glanced up at him before rubbing his fingers over the other one.

It made his cock ache and his back arch up toward Morse’s mouth and clever tongue, but he didn’t get as much time to savour it as he wished before Morse was moving again. He was so restless; it was rather like trying to hold a wild thing in his grip, and Morse wriggled away from DeBryn’s hold and slid down the bed, pushing DeBryn’s legs open with careless assurance to lie between them.

‘Oh.’ DeBryn’s heart leaped at the sight of Morse mouthing kisses onto his hip, the flushed line of his cock standing stiffly so close to Morse’s mouth. ‘I... yes.’

Morse glanced up at him, a bright-eyed flash of amusement, before he dipped his head and let the tip of DeBryn’s cock push between his lips and over his tongue.

DeBryn’s eyes fluttered closed and he moaned loudly, heedlessly, before remembering where they were and jamming the side of his hand between his teeth, trying to swallow it down. Without a condom the sensations were heightened, almost electric: Morse’s mouth was silky-wet, his hand gripping the base steady and confident, and he let DeBryn slide in and out of his mouth a few times before pulling away to drop his head and run his tongue across his balls, the inside of his thighs, and DeBryn groaned and fisted his hands against the urge to pull that lush mouth back to where he was heavy and aching for it.

Something had made Morse unfocussed tonight. Perhaps he had drunk more than DeBryn thought, or perhaps the excitement at the factory and the thrill of a case successfully closed had left him in a fey mood. Whatever it was – and, then and there, DeBryn was in no mood to work it out – it had made his attention wander. He suckled at DeBryn’s cock for a long time, keeping a steady rhythm and pressure until climax was almost within reach, and then pull away, seemingly distracted by the texture of the delicate skin along DeBryn’s inner thighs as he traced it with fingertips and then with his warm mouth. Back to DeBryn’s cock, until DeBryn’s head tilted back on the pillow and he had to fasten his hand over his mouth to stifle his own desperate pleasure-noises, but as ecstasy swelled tight and hot in his belly Morse let his cock slide away to rub his nose against the coarse hair between his legs.

It drove DeBryn half-out of his wits, and the third time Morse did it DeBryn caught hold of his shoulder.

‘Please,’ he said. He twisted restlessly on the bed, feeling the slickness of sweat at his temples and in the small of his back. He ached for release, his erection thick and heavy with blood, held tight in the curl of Morse’s fingers, jutting up wet and darkly flushed towards Morse’s mouth. DeBryn couldn’t recall the last time he had seen himself so hard; he didn’t dare touch Morse’s face or hair for fear of grabbing, but he squeezed a strong shoulder.

Under his touch Morse purred, lifting his head to watch DeBryn curiously as his hand slid along his cock, rubbing a thumb over the sensitive tip and making DeBryn’s hips twitch, a tiny pulse of wetness welling from him, before Morse’s hand slid down to grip the base once more. There was something about Morse’s face, a hungry sort of intrigue; perhaps his erratic moments had less to do with carelessness and more to do with intent, and DeBryn sucked his lower lip between his teeth and smoothed Morse’s hair back from his forehead with a shaking palm.

‘Please,’ he said again, half-begging and not caring a whit, undone by the tickle of Morse’s fingertips rubbing over his balls, gentle where he needed firm, and slow where he ached for fast. ‘Don’t tease, please just...’

He couldn’t make himself say it. Even here, now, he couldn’t articulate the filthy thoughts playing out in his mind, but Morse gave a lazy smile and lowered his head and DeBryn bit down on the heel of his hand but couldn’t suppress his moan as he pushed back into soft, wet warmth.

This time Morse had enough of his distractions. Or perhaps DeBryn was so close as to make it irrelevant, because in a very short time DeBryn was gasping. The head of his cock was achingly sensitive, every firm pass of Morse’s tongue against it making him shiver, and he gulped for breath as Morse’s head bobbed between his legs and Morse’s hand began to rub steadily at his balls.

DeBryn waited as long as he dared before finally – when the muscles of his thighs began to tense, the promise of ecstasy flickering along his nerve endings, the jolts of pleasure at each movement of Morse’s mouth beginning to run together – he reached down to gently guide Morse’s face away.

Morse had made it clear by now what he did and didn’t care for, and DeBryn bent his knees to brace his heels on the bed and covered Morse’s hand with his, encouraging him to pull at DeBryn’s cock with the short, sharp tugs he needed. DeBryn held Morse’s hand at the top, guiding his fingers to rub all around the slick head as DeBryn moaned, his stomach muscles hitching tight as he began to shudder, his hips losing their rhythm and lifting restlessly into their joined hands.

He was careful to angle his cock upwards, away from Morse’s face, but a few seconds later DeBryn startled as Morse’s hand shifted under his, tilting his cock upwards away from his stomach and taking the head back into his slick mouth.

‘Careful,’ DeBryn got out, through gritted teeth, pawing clumsily at the side of Morse’s hot face, wanting to push him away, wanting to pull him closer because Christ, yes, that was it, his pleasure leaping deep in his groin. ‘ _Morse_. Oh God, be careful, I’m nearly–’

Morse hunched his shoulders and stayed exactly where he was, and the next instant DeBryn cried out, hips twitching upwards despite his best intentions. The pleasure of it – of being held in someone’s mouth as he finished, of being permitted this new intimacy – drove all other thoughts out of his head, and he belatedly pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth to smother himself, squeezing his eyes closed as he shook through it, until it ebbed and faded and he could suck in a desperate gasp for air.

There was a hitch in Morse’s rhythm and DeBryn swiftly pushed his hand lower, laying his fingers on the sweat-damp skin of Morse’s throat and feeling it hitch as he swallowed, quickly. Morse didn’t take his mouth away, though, merely kept licking at DeBryn until DeBryn groaned in sated exhaustion, letting his legs slide back down to the bed and gently easing Morse’s mouth off him.

‘A moment,’ he managed. Hs heart thundered in his chest, his mouth dry from panting, and DeBryn sucked in a couple of deep breaths before rousing himself.

It was the most intense climax he had achieved with a partner for a long time, and pride forbad he offered anything less in return. But when Morse squirmed up the bed he didn’t lie back and spread his legs. Instead he crawled up over DeBryn, biting stinging kisses on his stomach and chest that made DeBryn writhe, caught between asking for mercy and asking for more, before settling with a knee either side of DeBryn’s hips.

‘Here,’ Morse said. His cock jutted out stiffly, the head exposed. His voice was hoarse, his lips and chin shiny-wet, and DeBryn cupped his jaw and wiped a thumb gently over his slick mouth, dizzy from orgasm and ready to do whatever Morse wanted to get him off.

‘You want to...’ DeBryn gestured towards his face, thinking Morse wanted to kneel astride his chest and use his mouth. He hadn’t done that before, but surely he could trust Morse not to go too hard or too deep.

‘No.’ Morse turned his face into DeBryn’s touch, opening his lips around DeBryn’s thumb, and DeBryn swallowed a whimper at the soft slickness of his tongue. With his other hand Morse caught hold of DeBryn’s other wrist, pulling it from where DeBryn had gripped a splayed thigh and tugging it between his legs. ‘Like this.’

It that was what he wanted then could have it, but it seemed a poor return after what he had given DeBryn.

‘You’re sure?’ DeBryn asked, already drawing his hand along Morse’s length, stroking lightly as Morse’s hips twitched forwards into the touch. ‘Nothing more?’

‘Mmm...’ Morse ducked his head, letting DeBryn’s thumb slide free of his mouth to leave a wet smear across his jaw, and gave DeBryn a look from under his lashes.

It made DeBryn’s heart stutter, even as he trailed his hand down Morse’s chest to rub across his nipples. ‘Tell me.’

In reply Morse caught his hand, and at first DeBryn was puzzled because Morse was drawing it down between his legs to join his other hand, but then he shuffled his knees and leaned forward and DeBryn’s hand slid lower and back and _oh_. He had liked that, had he?

‘This?’ DeBryn asked quietly, stroking delicately across tight muscle and watching Morse’s face. ‘This is what you want?’

Useless to ask, since Morse had pulled DeBryn’s hand there himself, but DeBryn wanted a moment to collect himself, to drink in the sight of Morse with flushed cheeks and tousled hair, eyes closed and squirming tightly, mutely asking DeBryn to finger him while stroking him off.

‘Of course. I...’ DeBryn stammered, giddy with satiation and desire. ‘Yes of course. Just let me... here...’

DeBryn withdrew his hands, turning away to reach for Morse’s bedside table, hoping he had some Vaseline or lotion or _something_ , anything to ease the way, but Morse was already leaning over him, his position and longer reach letting him hook the drawer open and retrieve a small glass bottle that he pressed into DeBryn’s hands.

‘Right.’ So this was what he liked, then, for his solitary activities, and DeBryn knew already that the knowledge would be making several reappearances in his own fevered imaginings. ‘Here.’

DeBryn slicked the fingers of his right hand generously, before sealing the bottle and tugging at Morse’s arm again. ‘Come down here.’

Morse obeyed, bending low for a kiss and raising himself when DeBryn nudged at his inner thighs with the back of his wrist, his slick fingers carefully curled into his palm to avoid soiling the blankets rucked up around Morse’s knees. It wasn’t much room to work, and he had to crook his wrist at an awkward angle, but this was how Morse wanted it so this was how he would try, and Morse shivered hard at the first pass of DeBryn’s fingers along the cleft of his arse.

It would have been fair to draw things out, after Morse had teased him so abominably. Fair and entirely deserved, and DeBryn certainly began with very definite intentions in that direction. But Morse’s reactions to his touches entirely undid him; he shuddered and broke away from DeBryn’s kisses to hide his face in DeBryn’s neck as DeBryn rubbed back and forth across tight muscle, silently coaxing him to relax before eventually easing a fingertip inside, and DeBryn ended up rubbing Morse’s back with the wrist of his free hand, murmuring calming noises into his hair.

Morse’s sides heaved with his breathing as DeBryn pressed deeper, searching for that particular spot, trying to recall what Morse had seemed to like the last time. He knew when he found it, more by the contours under his fingertips than by Morse’s tiny inhalation, and he rubbed back and forth over it, nudging Morse’s chin back up so DeBryn could kiss him and watch his reaction, and after a minute of massaging carefully over and around it Morse’s eyelashes fluttered closed and his lips parted on a moan.

‘Yes, there you are.’ DeBryn’s voice was rough and he swallowed thickly, watching as Morse reared back, his knees spreading wider and his spine stretching upwards, almost sitting on DeBryn’s hand. DeBryn rubbed at Morse’s thigh distractedly, watching his chin tilt up towards the ceiling, his throat working. ‘Like that, that’s it.’

Morse’s hands were splayed on DeBryn’s chest, half-bracing himself up while his hips rocked subtly, half-stroking over the muscle of DeBryn’s chest and shoulders, and at this he grabbed DeBryn’s hand and pulled it to his cock, and DeBryn curled his oil-slick palm around the hard length and began to stroke.

After a few moments DeBryn’s wrist began to ache; he bore it as best he could before withdrawing his finger and immediately pressing back in with two, wishing Morse was low enough that DeBryn could kiss away his ragged little gasp at the change, the break in rhythm.

‘Come here,’ he ordered, giving a commanding little tug at Morse’s cock, and Morse didn’t hesitate but folded forward, bracing himself with forearms on the pillow either side of DeBryn’s head and smearing clumsy kisses on his cheeks.

Like this – and with two fingers – the angle was easier, less of a stretch. DeBryn rotated his fingers, listening to Morse’s soft noise against his temple, and lifted his chin to find Morse’s ear among the tangle of hair, daring to breathe to him: ‘Have you not done this before, then?’

Had he asked Morse outside the bedroom, DeBryn knew full well he would have received no answer; in fact just posing the question was unthinkable. Even at the start of things, or lying flushed and sated afterwards, Morse would likely have baulked and changed the subject. But this Morse – this sensual creature with two of DeBryn’s fingers inside him and his cock heavy in DeBryn’s hand – barely hesitated before shaking his head mutely.

DeBryn groaned softly. The idea of Morse learning at his hands what it felt like to have something inside him during sex, learning to like it, to want it, was a powerfully erotic one. In his hand Morse was hard as DeBryn had ever felt him; hang all his intentions about teasing the chap, DeBryn wanted nothing more than to feel Morse having an orgasm on his fingers, to remind him – after the last time – how good it could feel, so he began his strokes, trying to match the twisting pulls on Morse’s cock with the movements of his fingers inside him.

‘Oh.’ Morse bit lightly at DeBryn’s throat. ‘Oh God yes, please. Max, that’s... please, more–’

DeBryn was panting in sympathy with Morse, silently urging him on as Morse shivered on top of him, and groaned when Morse half-sat back up, reaching his own hand down to fold his fingers around DeBryn’s. The shift in weight made it harder to keep the steady pulses of his fingers in Morse’s arse, but no matter when DeBryn could feel him getting close, see it in the tremor in his stomach muscles, hear it in the rising pitch of his gasps.

Around his fingers there was a tell-tale flutter, tiny but there, and DeBryn squeezed Morse’s cock as Morse’s body tightened around his fingers and, with a drawn-out moan, he spilled warm and wet across DeBryn’s stomach, belatedly pressing the back of his wrist to his mouth to quiet himself.

DeBryn eased him through it, keeping both hands moving, wanting to give Morse the sensation of something moving in him as he came, until Morse groaned loudly and swayed forwards, flinging out his clean hand at the last minute to catch himself before he toppled over.

‘Oh.’ Morse sighed out a long breath, his hand still moving on his cock but slower now, the intensity of his release fading, and DeBryn watched his face carefully, sliding his fingers out of Morse when his eyelashes fluttered and opened.

The slide of DeBryn’s fingers out of him made Morse bite his lip and DeBryn knew that look: what had seemed desperately erotic during sex just felt slightly odd afterwards, and DeBryn let his fingers slide free but kept his hand on Morse’s arse, feeling the muscles shift under skin as Morse shifted and stretched out on top of him with a satisfied sigh.

There were no more words after that. DeBryn’s body thrummed with satiation and Morse gave out heat like a furnace; his weight on DeBryn was heavy but not unpleasant, particularly when he rolled slightly to one side, smearing the mess between them but tucking his head on DeBryn’s shoulder and under his chin, flinging a leg across both of DeBryn’s thighs. DeBryn worked an arm under Morse’s neck and curved it up to rest on his back, trailing his fingers idly along the knobs of Morse’s spine.

This was all well and good for now but at some point they would need to get under the blankets, the air of the room was cool on the part of DeBryn’s chest that didn’t have Morse sprawled across it. He would say something in a moment. Not too long, because Morse was already limp and DeBryn wouldn’t put it past him to fall asleep right here, bare-arsed, but soon.

\----------

DeBryn jerked awake, shivering. His feet were like blocks of ice, his skin covered in gooseflesh; he squinted at the distant ceiling and the green wall next to the bed with utter bewilderment until someone stirred next to him and, glancing over, memory came flooding back.

No wonder he had woken up cold. He squinted vaguely at the travel clock perched on a copy of _The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists_ , on Morse’s nightstand, before giving up and leaning over Morse to pick it up and bring it closer to his face. Three o’clock in the morning.

DeBryn groaned under his breath. They had missed dinner and his stomach was painfully empty; the air of the room was cold on his skin and – most pressingly – his mouth tasted foul. He lifted his hand but remembered at the last minute that they hadn’t cleaned up after their activities, and he grimaced, instead rubbing his forearm over his face.

Morse didn’t stir when DeBryn rose, and stayed solidly asleep during his perfunctory was at the tiny sink in the corner. Drying his hands on the cheap, scratchy towel hanging by the sink, DeBryn hesitated.

A week ago he would have woken Morse, chivvied him under the blankets, and rummaged in his kitchen until he found something for them both to eat. Tristan and Iseult may have been able to subsist on love alone; the rest of humanity generally required something in addition.

But now...

Silently DeBryn collected his clothes and dressed, drinking a glass of water against hunger pangs. Behind him Morse had moved into the warm hollow left by his body, shouldering into the rucked-up blankets with an animal’s instinctive search for warmth, and DeBryn bit his lip. Waking Morse would involve more interaction than DeBryn cared for, but Morse had drawn his knees up, folding his arms across his chest. DeBryn crossed the room on quiet feet and cautiously untucked the blankets from the bed, flipping them up and over him.

They smelled like Morse, the concentrated scent of his skin. It made DeBryn’s heart leap in an entirely instinctive response, but almost immediately there was something else. A lighter, floral scent; DeBryn inhaled gently, puzzled and unable to place it, until he remembered Morse’s late arrival that morning, his mouth looking thoroughly kissed and his tie askew. He dropped the blankets over Morse and turned away, not allowing himself to look for traces of lipstick on the pillow, or long dark hairs that couldn’t have come from Morse’s auburn crop. Of course. He had no right to this heaviness in his chest, he should have known what to expect. And it would certainly explain why Morse slept so deeply, not even stirring when DeBryn trod on the creaky floorboard.

He tiptoed out, carefully to shut the door with the quietest click he could manage, and in the sleeping street the car engine was almost offensively loud. DeBryn drove off, his mind turning over the slim figure wrapped in dark woollen blankets, the scatter of freckles along a pale, leanly muscled arm. He shook his head at himself, changing gears with unnecessary force.

Maudlin, he was getting maudlin. Small wonder: it was the middle of the night, he was starving and tired and desperately in need of a shower. Tomorrow he could sleep in, and have a quiet day free of any red-haired detectives or hearing the words British bloody Imperial, and feel more like his old self.

His route home took him past the Botanic Gardens, and he glanced at the exotic trees standing silent in the darkness, so far from their native homes. Perhaps he should do likewise and uproot, at least for a short while. Despite his job, he had always had tendencies towards sentimental attachment, and a period away from Oxford would do him no harm. Might even help him to see things with new perspective.

A week’s fishing, perhaps. Or hill-walking in the Lakes. Anything to take him out of his little sphere in Oxford and remind him that the world was a large place, bigger than his own immediate circle of wants and needs and attachments. That its complex machinery wouldn’t stop turning if one small cog lost something that, in fact, had never truly been his in the first place.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Apologies for the delay in posting - this one fought me slightly. If you're the sort of person who likes to know the ending ahead of reading then I'm happy to discuss: ping me an email at kate.lear.uk@gmail.com

For the next few weeks, at least, the gods seemed to be conspiring in DeBryn’s favour. Winter brought its usual number of increased deaths, however few seemed to be anything other than natural and those in doubt were handled by other officers.

DeBryn stopped working with one ear cocked for Morse’s light step in the corridor, his slim figure brushing through the swing doors. He stopped lingering in his office after working hours, forcing himself instead to decamp to the Bodleian if there was reading to be done. He made more of an effort to attend concerts in the evening, and not sit at home half-expecting a knock on the door.

Christmas approached, and DeBryn rang his eldest brother to accept his yearly invitation to spend it with his family, on the outskirts of Shrewsbury. He met his newest niece, and had a familiar curl of alarm as Gwen, his sister-in-law, placed the warm bundle gently in his arms, her kind smile not betraying any hint of concern at handing over her precious daughter to a bachelor unaccustomed to babies. An uncle three times already, but he still grew nervous at the appalling fragility of new life.

Yet this smallest family member had strength too, and he let her hold his forefinger and wave it gently, feeling the force in her tiny grip.

‘Though she be but little, she is fierce,’ DeBryn murmured, as his brother placed a cup of tea at his elbow.

‘Quite.’ Smiling, Victor sat on the sofa next to him, looking down into his daughter’s face as she gave a yawn, small and pink as a cat’s. On arrival DeBryn had been struck with how tired he looked, yet there was happiness there too. ‘Meredith, we thought. Meredith Faye. Merry, for short.’

DeBryn looked sharply at him. Strange, to hear the name spoken aloud again, after all these years, and Victor’s smile held a touch of sadness.

But DeBryn only looked down at his niece and touched his fingertip lightly to her nose. Not the DeBryn nose, thank goodness, nor the DeBryn ears; yet there was something of his brother about the eyes and mouth. ‘And so I’m sure you shall be, little one.’

Afterwards, by dint of calling in every favour he was owed and asking a few more, he booked ten days of leave and went north, to Scotland.

A couple of old friends from medical school had settled there shortly after qualifying and had been issuing semi-regular invitations ever since, invitations that DeBryn now accepted. He stayed a night here and there, but mostly he just drove. He wandered the region, stopping in a series of bed and breakfasts and small country hotels, going on long solitary walks – through breathtaking scenery under crystal-clear winter skies – and returning in the evening for deep, dreamless sleep.

With no very clear destinations in mind it was difficult for his plans to be thrown off-course, but nevertheless DeBryn found himself forced to turn back on the road to Stirling by roads rendered impassable by snow. He ended up at a tiny village bed and breakfast, the only guest save for one other chap: a tall, diffident fellow who introduced himself as Guy, an artist up from London.

‘Really?’ DeBryn had looked at him curiously. ‘How does one manage to make a living as an artist in London?’

A wry smile. ‘With some difficulty, I’m afraid.’

With no other options for supper the pair of them had ended up at the local pub; DeBryn had been mildly dismayed to find he had unforeseen company for the evening, but the fellow was surprisingly easy to talk to.

‘So what brings you this far north?’ Guy slid back into his seat after placing their food order at the bar. He unloaded his burden of napkins, cutlery, and drinks, pushing a fresh pint across the table to DeBryn, and tilted his head curiously.

‘I fancied a spot of hill-walking.’ DeBryn nodded his thanks for the pint and picked it up, taking a long drink.

No such luck, alas. ‘Hill-walking?’ Guy glanced over to the window, where the wind dashed thick white flakes against the glass with a faint patter on the edge of hearing. ‘Fairly savage amusement at this time of year, isn’t it?’

Warmth and ale had made him careless, and DeBryn added, idly, ‘And also to see whether, as others have proposed, change of place and growth of time can truly break the bond of dying use.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Guy flicked him an opaque glance. ‘Does he know?’

The old familiar leap of terror in his belly, an uncomfortable feeling of exposure, and DeBryn froze, fingers tightening on his glass. How foolish of him to choose that quote and expect it to go unnoticed; too much time with Morse had lowered his estimation of the average intelligence of the rest of the population, and it was on the tip of DeBryn’s tongue to correct Guy, or – cowardly – simply to pretend to mishear the pronoun.

Yet the man’s look held more compassion than censure and, this far from Oxford, talking to someone he would never see again, what did it matter? There was something freeing in speaking the truth for once; perhaps this was what drew people to confession.

‘Yes.’ DeBryn stared down at his pint, turning the glass in careful circles on the varnished table top. ‘And also no.’

Guy’s expression softened in sympathy. ‘That sounds difficult.’

Uncomfortable under scrutiny, DeBryn squirmed slightly. ‘And yourself?’

‘No, there’s no-one.’ Guy smiled faintly, dark eyes warming. ‘Or rather, there is, but more muse than lover, I’m afraid.’

DeBryn wasn’t usually given to fluid conversation with strangers, but even he found dinner unexpectedly pleasant. And it was more pleasant still when, encouraged by Guy’s quiet attentiveness and the warm press of his knee against DeBryn’s under the table, DeBryn ventured to suggest a nightcap in his bedroom.

It was sorely needed: not just the physical pleasure, but the boost to his ego too. Guy proved himself every bit as engaging and attentive as he had over supper, and he woke DeBryn early for another round before tiptoeing back to his own room. They went their separate ways the next morning, but with phone numbers exchanged and a standing invitation to a certain small studio in London any time DeBryn felt like it.

All in all it was a liberating sensation, going where the mood took him with no more restrictions than a piece of driftwood on the tide. Yet one couldn’t live solely a life of leisure and when DeBryn woke one morning and realised he had only more day before turning his car back to Oxford, it was with mingled regret and relief. He missed his work. And – while he had some trepidation about seeing Morse again – this trip had allowed him to achieve a sort of distance, in sharp contrast to the feverish longing of last autumn. Now it was time to see whether it would stand up under renewed proximity.

\----------

His garden lay wrapped in silent white, the plants asleep under their blanket of snow, as his lone footsteps broke the clean canvas of the path up to his front door. His house had much the same chill as the mortuary, when he swung the front door open, while his morgue was almost garishly bright after the short days and muted winter colours of the Highlands.

A glance at his office showed that in his absence every tedious request and painstaking task had found their way onto his desk, and he sighed as he set his bag down. At least the first item of the day – a hit and run accident, brought down in the small hours of last night – sounded a straightforward enough task for his return.

\----------

The doors to the morgue had a squeak to their hinges; DeBryn had thought about getting them fixed but it had its uses. Such as now, when he heard the telltale sound and, without turning from his report on the unidentified hit-and-run, called, ‘Won’t be a moment.’

‘No hurry.’

The voice sent a flutter through him, and DeBryn made himself breathe calmly as he capped his pen and shuffled the papers back into order before crossing the room to Morse’s tall figure just inside the doors.

‘Morse.’

‘DeBryn.’

DeBryn permitted himself a glance at Morse with his professional gaze. Morse looked much the same as the last time DeBryn had seen him: tall, angular, jacket neatly buttoned but hair creeping rebelliously out of its combed order. Perhaps a little thinner, but then again it had been some weeks, and he couldn’t pretend memory had been faithful to the exact jut of Morse’s hip, the sharp line of his jaw.

Morse’s mouth opened, and he hesitated for a moment before speaking. ‘I’m here about that hit-and-run brought in overnight.’

‘Ah yes.’ DeBryn nodded towards the autopsy table. ‘That’s actually him there.’

‘Oh.’ Morse eyed the green-draped figure and DeBryn walked over, folding back just enough of the sheet to expose the man’s face, sparing Morse the sight of the rest of him.

Morse was standing rather close; at such proximity DeBryn fancied he could feel Morse’s warmth along his side, a sharp contrast to the chill of the morgue. Could catch his scent, too; no aftershave, just his usual scent of soap and paper and the smell of his own skin beneath it all that prompted a familiar restless hunger low in DeBryn’s stomach.

‘No-one come forward to claim him?’ DeBryn asked.

‘No, not yet.’

Morse was watching the body. Rather unusual, for him.

But no, DeBryn realised a moment later, following the line of Morse’s gaze – Morse wasn’t looking at the fellow’s face, he was looking at DeBryn’s hands. His square-ish hands; not long and graceful like Morse’s but even so, they were hands that had held Morse cupped securely the last time they saw each other, touching him inside and out in the most intimate caresses DeBryn knew.

DeBryn tugged the sheet back up over the fellow’s face; the movement broke Morse’s gaze and he glanced up, caught DeBryn’s eye, and looked away. The tips of his ears reddened, his cheekbones staining faintly pink. It suited him.

‘I’ve bagged his personal effects.’ DeBryn swallowed, and nodded towards the brown paper envelope on the bench. ‘But I wouldn’t get your hopes up; just the usual.’

When Morse stalked over there it was DeBryn’s turn to look, staring covetously at Morse’s long legs and narrow hips, the curve of his arse half-hidden by his suit jacket.

‘Specs, smoker’s bits and bobs,’ DeBryn said absently, eyes tracing the vulnerable skin on Morse’s nape. ‘Keys and wallet.’ He pulled his eyes away. ‘Somebody saw the accident, did they?’

‘No. Why?’

DeBryn drew a breath, considering for a moment before he spoke. ‘A case like this, I’d normally expect to find some injury to the lower limbs: point of impact where he’s come into contact with the vehicle, you see. But aside from the head injury there’s not a mark on him.’ He shrugged, unable to offer anything more concrete but professional instincts dissatisfied. ‘Could have been a glancing blow, I suppose: tossed him into the air, and the curb’s done the rest.’

Morse half-turned from the bench, looking narrowly at him before his gaze slid away, unfocussed, his brain latching onto the puzzle of it, and DeBryn shrugged and pulled the sheet silently back over the man’s face. By now he knew better than to interrupt when Morse got that look about him.

His posture hadn’t improved over the intervening weeks, and DeBryn watched the lopsided tilt to Morse’s stance as he pawed through the belongings and wondered how he had ever made it through the requisite two years in uniform before becoming a detective.

At Morse’s soft noise of interest – his hand slipping something into his pocket – DeBryn busied himself straightening the edge of the sheet, the thick cloth coarse and stiff under his fingers, newly familiar after so long away.

‘I’ll take these, if I may.’ At last Morse scooped the rest of the effects into the envelope and turned to DeBryn.

DeBryn shrugged. ‘As you wish. They’re of no use to me.’ He glanced down. ‘Nor to him any longer, poor sod.’

Morse nodded, not looking down. Not looking at DeBryn either; instead there seemed to be something on the far wall that had caught his interest, and he licked his lips and shifted his weight until DeBryn said tartly: ‘Spit it out, then.’

He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Morse finally met his eyes and said, stiffly, ‘I... understand you’ve been away.’

A flutter of nerves in DeBryn’s stomach, his mouth abruptly dry for no reason. He forced himself to shrug, to pretend to ease. ‘As you say.’

‘Were you...’ Morse began, but faltered almost immediately. DeBryn stayed stubbornly silent, waiting to see if Morse would ask.

His eyes were a pale blue today, vivid against his white shirt; they reminded DeBryn of a winter sky, cool and remote.

‘I went north for a couple of weeks,’ DeBryn said after a few moments where silence stretched thin, taking pity on him after watching Morse fumble for words. ‘Searching for that pleasure of the pathless woods, rapture of the lonely shore, that sort of thing.’

‘I see.’ Morse met DeBryn’s eyes before looking away once more. ‘Did it work?’

DeBryn watched the pulse flutter delicately in the hollow of Morse’s pale throat. ‘Well enough, thank you.’

‘Oh?’ Morse’s eyebrows tilted enquiringly, invitingly.

DeBryn stayed silent, and after a moment Morse stepped back. In that instant he reminded DeBryn of nothing so much as a cat, carefully on its dignity. For the first time in weeks, it occurred to DeBryn to wonder whether Morse had minded waking up alone, that autumn morning after their last encounter.

Too late to consider that now, though, and certainly too late to do anything about it. And none of his concern, moreover, and DeBryn reminded himself firmly of his resolution of distance as Morse twitched his shoulders straight.

DeBryn cleared his throat. ‘Well then.’

He had work to do. A mountain of work, and yet despite all that DeBryn lingered, twitching the sheet straight and murmuring, ‘And yourself? Spent the season with family, I presume?’

‘Oh.’ Morse blinked, seeming surprised at the suggestion. ‘No. We’re not–’ He ducked his head, rubbing his ear and looking away. ‘I was on shift rota, over Christmas.’

‘I see.’ There were worlds of meaning in that aborted sentence, DeBryn would bet. ‘Bad luck.’

Morse shrugged. ‘I volunteered. Let those men with families go home to them.’

For all his standoffishness the chap was kind-hearted, and DeBryn inclined his head. ‘That was kindly done.’

Morse’s shoulders twitched, and he shifted restlessly. ‘I should be going.’

‘Indeed.’

DeBryn forbore asking whether Thursday had chivvied Morse over to his house for a Christmas or New Year’s Day dinner, or whether Morse had invented a convenient excuse. Instead he handed Morse the report on the body and pulled out the next folder, his mind already leaping ahead, listening with half an ear to Morse’s light step.

‘Well, goodbye then. And–’ DeBryn looked up at Morse’s unusual hesitation and found him standing with one hand on the door handle, looking endearingly self-conscious. He sent DeBryn one of his small smiles, that still managed to convey more warmth than a grin would have on another man. ‘Happy New Year to you, I suppose.’

DeBryn smiled faintly in response, warmth blooming in his chest. ‘Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky.’

Morse’s smile widened briefly into something more genuine; he ducked his head and, with a last murmured, ‘Doctor,’ he left.

DeBryn sighed, shaking his head at his own foolishness, and began to wheel the unknown hit and run to one side for storage, rubbing a wrist over his forehead and muttering: ‘Ring out the old, ring in the new.’

\----------

If Morse had been cool at their first meeting, wrapped firmly in his wintery reserve, then the next time DeBryn saw him he was fire, incandescent.

The doorbell rang when DeBryn was already in bed, a fat hot water bottle warming his feet and his book open in his lap. He glanced at the clock and sighed. He had so hoped not to be called out tonight – the weather outside was wretched – but he flung back the cover and picked up his dressing gown, belting it tightly around his waist as he made for the stairs.

It rang again when he was only halfway down, and it was this as much as the glimpse of the familiar tall figure outside that sent a faint tendril of arousal curling along DeBryn’s nerve endings.

There was only one reason for Morse to come calling at this hour, and DeBryn swallowed hard and gripped the banister with a palm growing suddenly warm and damp. At this rate he would develop an entirely Pavlovian reaction to the sound of the doorbell late at night; yet if Morse thought he could be called to heel like a dog, he had another thing coming.

DeBryn swung the door open to find – as expected – Morse on the front step, shoes already damp with half-melted snow. But it was a different man to the chap who had paid a visit to his morgue: Morse was dishevelled, his hair rumpled as though he had been pulling at it, face flushed and eyes burning. He looked spoiling for a fight, in fact, and DeBryn eyed him curiously as he stepped forward, not awaiting an invitation.

‘Morse.’ DeBryn stood there, blocking the door with his body, arms folded, and looked Morse up and down as he halted on the threshold. The fellow must think sleep was a weakness to be disdained. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

‘I...’ Morse blinked. ‘No, I...’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Oh.’ He took a step back. ‘Sorry, I–’

‘Oh, come in.’ DeBryn rolled his eyes and stepped back, swinging the door open slightly. And, when Morse didn’t move, he added pointedly: ‘You’re letting all the warm air out.’

Thus chivvied, Morse walked through the door, catching the edge in his hand to close it behind himself and continuing until he was standing close to DeBryn, close enough that DeBryn had to tilt his chin back slightly to meet Morse’s eyes. ‘I’ve just finished and thought I’d stop by. See if you wanted a drink.’

A drink was clearly not what he had in mind. Or not all he had in mind, the flicker of his gaze over DeBryn’s body left DeBryn in no doubt. Arms still folded, DeBryn gripped a fold of dressing gown in his fingers, and took a deep breath. He ought to refuse, or at least put up a pretence of needing persuasion. But this close he could smell Morse, the clean scent of his skin and soap, and by now his body associated that smell firmly with arousal and eventual pleasure. And it was heady to be so desired, to be _wanted_ , by someone he wanted so much in return.

Morse’s mouth was soft, when DeBryn tilted his chin up to kiss him. Pliant, despite his bristling energy, and his lips parted easily under DeBryn’s tongue. A long hand cupped DeBryn’s nape, fingers sliding gently through his hair, and DeBryn shivered.

He was abruptly, acutely, conscious that he wore only a pair of thin pyjamas under his dressing gown; it seemed Morse was too, for his fingers were already plucking at the knotted belt and, as it loosened, he slid a hand inside, pushing long fingers through the gaps between the buttons of the pyjama top to stroke DeBryn’s bare stomach.

In response DeBryn dropped his hands to Morse’s arse, stroking over his flanks and gripping to pull him closer, and Morse leaned into him heavily, walking DeBryn backwards until Morse could press him back against the wall.

‘Can we?’ Morse’s mouth had found DeBryn’s ear and he slanted his hips forward against DeBryn, canting back and forth against him suggestively. ‘I know it’s late, and you didn’t invite me. But can we? Please?’

Arousal surged through DeBryn, pooling heavy between his legs, and he closed his eyes briefly as Morse gently pressed a knee between his to let the curve and weight of his thigh ride against DeBryn’s groin.

‘Alright.’ DeBryn licked his lips. Morse tasted strongly of Scotch; goodness knew how many he had drunk before coming over, but his eyes had their familiar sharp glint and DeBryn tilted his head towards the stairs. ‘Go on, then.’

DeBryn took a moment before following Morse upstairs. So much for his resolutions of reserve, and distance, but he couldn’t pretend his heart wasn’t beating faster with anticipation, his cock half-hard already from that searing kiss.

Upstairs Morse had stripped all his clothes off and climbed into bed, kicking the sheets and blankets down to the foot. He lay on his front, arms folded under his head, and DeBryn stared dry-mouthed at the long line of his spine, the pert curve of his arse.

‘Well then, come on.’ Morse was watching him, blue eyes sharply vivid against the white sheets.

‘I... yes.’

DeBryn made haste to get out of his own clothes, acutely aware of Morse watching from the bed. His hands fluttered and hesitated over his pyjama trousers before he caught his lip between his teeth and, hooking his thumbs in the waistband, stripped them down and off. His cock bobbed, flushed and hard already just from that, from a quick fumbling kiss in the hall, and DeBryn watched Morse’s gaze dip down and his lips part hungrily.

There was a small brown bottle on the bedside table; unfamiliar, until DeBryn picked it up and examined it, and realised with a thud of lust it was the same one he had used on Morse last time.

‘You brought...’ DeBryn looked at Morse, seeing anew the pose, the spread thighs.

‘Yes. I thought we could... try something new.’ Morse glanced at him, head tilted, cat-like.

DeBryn swallowed hard, his desire surging. ‘If you want.’

‘I do want.’ Morse laid his head down on his folded arms, rolling his shoulders a little as the mattress dipped under DeBryn’s weight.

‘I... see.’ But he didn’t, not really. The last time had been erotic, joyful, with his fingers sunk inside Morse and Morse kissing him half-breathless, gasping his pleasure against DeBryn’s temple. If Morse had pushed DeBryn’s hand away and stroked him back to full hardness before guiding DeBryn inside him, it would have been thrilling and pleasurable and DeBryn would have done it for him gladly.

This felt oddly businesslike, as though Morse expected him to just get straight to it with no preamble, and DeBryn rested a hand in the hollow of Morse’s spine and brushed their noses together, trying at the very least to get a kiss.

Morse responded, body slowly loosening and tilting towards DeBryn’s hands, until he rolled onto his side to slide close, until his stomach brushed warm and smooth against DeBryn’s and his muscles grew pliant under DeBryn’s gently stroking fingertips.

That was better, and DeBryn murmured his approval as Morse curled a thigh over DeBryn’s legs, breaking their kiss to nose along DeBryn’s throat. He rubbed his hand along Morse’s long back, sliding lower until he trailed his palm over Morse’s arse and Morse’s breath caught.

Slowly. Gently, and slowly, and DeBryn rubbed his fingers lightly down the cleft of Morse’s arse, across tight muscle, intending to lead up to it gradually–

–but clearly his pace and consideration failed to satisfy; there was a sudden disconcerting movement and DeBryn found himself presented with Morse’s back, his nose tickled by the hair on Morse’s nape.

‘Morse?’

‘Like this,’ Morse said, twisting his head back for a kiss, arching his spine to nudge his arse back against DeBryn’s groin. He leaned over to pick up the bottle and pressed it into DeBryn’s hands. ‘Now, like this.’

Well that was fairly unequivocal, and DeBryn slicked his fingers and Morse took the bottle from him when DeBryn would have set it back on the nightstand.

‘Here.’ Morse tipped some into the cup of his palm, giving DeBryn a heated look from under his eyelashes. ‘I’m going to need that too.’

And DeBryn sighed his approval as Morse twisted half-round for another kiss, slicking his hand along the length of DeBryn’s arousal.

DeBryn had missed this. Not just sex but Morse particularly: the exact point on his nape where his hair feathered into a downy V, the curve of his neck that held his scent so deliciously, and DeBryn kissed him and cradled his face with his free hand, and when Morse turned back DeBryn pressed his nose and mouth into Morse’s hair and inhaled, drawing in the scent of him.

It was dizzying, so much sensory input after such long privation, and DeBryn lost track of time – it was surely only minutes that they lay there, but it might have been hours and he wouldn’t have been surprised – and he only came back to himself when Morse rolled onto his front, parting his legs and drawing a pillow close to turn his face into it.

‘Go on,’ he said, half-muffled, as DeBryn swallowed hard against a surge of lust.

‘You’re sure?’ he asked, even as he moved, climbing between Morse’s strong thighs.

It was like something from his fantasies, and when Morse nodded silently DeBryn leaned forward, gripping his erection, and nudged clumsily forwards until Morse’s body yielded. Gasping, he folded forwards, bracing his hands either side of Morse’s shoulders and sinking into tight heat, blindly kissing Morse’s nape as he rolled his hips and Morse shuddered beneath him.

It was so much like his fantasies, in fact, that DeBryn would later be annoyed at himself for forgetting that the source of the pleasure half-blinding him wasn’t some imaginary lover but a young man, with his own wants and likes. And his dislikes; DeBryn had always tried to be a generous lover, and when – after a few minutes – he tugged Morse up onto his knees, wanting to get him off first, and found his penis soft between his legs, DeBryn knew a moment of visceral shock.

‘Morse?’

Morse shifted, bracing his weight on one hand to push DeBryn’s wrist away. ‘Don’t.’

DeBryn tried again and was rebuffed, and this time Morse shifted his knees in their splay.

‘Don’t. I’m...’ Morse’s voice was strained, the line of his shoulders tense. ‘Fine. I’m fine, you don’t need to–’

‘But you’re not even–’

‘I’m alright.’ Morse moved again, but this time DeBryn was watching and caught the faint shiver of tension Morse couldn’t entirely suppress at the movement of DeBryn inside him.

Abruptly DeBryn’s stomach turned, his desire vanishing under a faint wave of nausea; he was no longer a man pleasuring his lover but instead a man performing a sex act on someone who wasn’t even aroused by it. Was experiencing discomfort as a result, in fact, and DeBryn quickly twitched his hips away, pulling out of Morse’s body.

‘What?’ Morse twisted his head round to blink at him, before frowning slightly. ‘What are you–’

‘What are _you_ doing would seem a more pertinent question.’ The press of Morse’s knees either side of his own was suddenly unwelcome, and DeBryn wriggled away, over to the edge of the bed. He was still hard, shiny-slick from oil, and DeBryn pushed the heel of his hand against the base of his cock, trying to press his arousal away, face burning from embarrassment and at the treacherous throb of pleasure that went through him.

‘You...’ Morse sat back on his heels. ‘Don’t you want to–’

‘No,’ DeBryn snapped. He stood jerkily, snatched up his dressing gown, and pulled it on, belting it tightly. ‘No, not particularly. I don’t know what you’re playing at, but–’

‘What I’m playing at?’ Morse lifted his chin combatively, baring his throat and meeting DeBryn’s eyes, and DeBryn flushed and tried not to stare too obviously at all the naked skin on display.

Annoyance helped, though. And at that moment, annoyance was very easy to find.

‘Because it looks to me as though you’re using me as a tool for your own masochism.’ DeBryn fumbled his glasses off the nightstand and slid them on, needing their armour. ‘Which, in case it isn’t obvious, let me state I’ve no interest in being.’

Apparently this touched a nerve; Morse’s face darkened. ‘I’ve no tendency towards masochism.’

‘That’s not what it looks like to me. I can’t think of any other reason you would turn up, stinking of Scotch, to do something you so obviously find distasteful. Or perhaps it’s an act of charity?’ He was going too far, he knew it, but his temper was well and truly roused. ‘Perhaps you find me so repugnant, imagine I must be so desperate for bed mates, that I need to resort to forcing myself on men?’

‘Now wait–’

‘No, enough.’ Abruptly DeBryn thought of Guy. The fellow had made it quite clear he would like to see DeBryn again, that an evening’s entertainment in London was his for the asking, and he spared a moment to wonder –a touch wistfully – why he couldn’t have fallen in with someone so easy and uncomplicated.

DeBryn folded his arms, anger burning in his chest. ‘I understand that this – that _I_ – am convenient, Morse, but even I have my limits.’

‘That’s not–’

‘Enough.’ In that moment DeBryn was suddenly sick of him. He jammed his hands tightly into the crooks of his elbows lest their shaking give away how angry he was and turned away, wanting nothing so much as to be alone to recover his wounded pride. ‘Get out.’

It was a petty consolation to know Morse shared his annoyance: as he got off the bed and began to snatch his clothes up DeBryn noted the high flush along his cheekbones.

‘I saw someone today who once called me a vile little catamite.’ Morse bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile. ‘Thought I might as well make it official.’

So he had thought to come and torment DeBryn instead, had he? Not inviting him to share something that was intended to give pleasure to both, merely to place him in the role of tool for his own self-punishment, and DeBryn made a small noise, thoroughly disgusted with him. ‘People hurl abuse at policemen, Morse. If you’re not prepared for that then perhaps, as I’ve often suspected, you’re in the wrong profession after all.’

That was a step too far: Morse flushed deeper, and with his shirt only half-buttoned DeBryn could see it extending down to his chest. ‘Now look–’

‘No.’ DeBryn jerked his head toward the door. ‘I’m sure I told you to leave.’

DeBryn didn’t wait to see Morse obey. His need for privacy was abruptly too great and he flung open his bedroom door and went into the bathroom, banging the door behind him and bracing his palms on the sink. He needed to clean himself of the oil, wash away all traces of this bloody evening, but for the moment he could only close his eyes and breathe deeply, trying to master the rage burning through his chest.

After a few moments Morse’s feet thumped down the stairs and the front door slammed, almost hard enough to take it off its hinges, certainly hard enough that DeBryn felt the house tremble faintly. He would have to apologise to his neighbour the next time he saw her.

DeBryn stood there until his pounding heart calmed before – carefully, not meeting his own gaze in the mirror – he reached for a flannel and the bar of soap.

\----------

Of course the problem – one of the many problems – of having this sort of semi-standing arrangement with one of Oxford City’s finest was the impossibility of avoiding one another after a row. DeBryn would have cheerfully ignored Morse’s existence for the rest of the year, consigning him and all the colleagues to the furthest reaches of Hades without a moment’s hesitation, but the gods did not smile upon beleaguered, overworked pathologist because in the subsequent days DeBryn received not one but two call-outs for Thursday’s team.

The first was the very next day, for a girl found shot in one of Oxford’s hidden green corners. All straightforward, but DeBryn stalked around and snapped at the uniforms on the scene as though they had done him a personal wrong. He delivered his findings to Thursday and Strange, studiously avoiding Morse’s tired and hungover gaze, and not daring to let himself notice the awkward tilt to Morse’s stance.

He couldn’t keep his control when Morse expressed doubt over the time of death, though. In an odd way DeBryn was almost grateful to the chap for presenting him with an excuse; since he was unable to give the real reason for his annoyance, it was much easier to take offence at implied criticism of his methods until even Thursday looked mildly surprised.

‘Sorry, Doctor.’ Strange walked DeBryn back to his car, almost visibly nervous of him after witnessing that display of temper. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean any offence.’ Strange rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I think he got out of bed on the wrong side this morning; we’ve already had a complaint through from the Master at Baidley this morning.’

Thankfully they had reached the car by the point and DeBryn could busy himself packing his kit away, hiding his face from Strange.

The second occasion DeBryn would remember as long as he lived.

When the call came he noted the details mechanically: two fatal shootings, at a house in one of Oxford’s middle-class suburbs. But when he walked into the living room and saw Thursday on his knees beside a familiar slim figure, up to his wrists in blood and anguish in his face, DeBryn stopped dead.

A cold fist clutched his heart and his knees were abruptly unsteady; as he took two steps to the sofa and sank down onto it, he noticed with an odd clarity that Morse was wearing odd socks. His trouser legs had hitched up as he fell, and each sock was a slightly different shade of dark blue. Grabbed in a hurry that morning, clearly, and DeBryn swallowed convulsively.

The last words he had ever spoken to Morse were in reproof. And that night Morse had come round... DeBryn hadn’t even seen him to the door – hadn’t even been able to look at him – he had been so angry. And now he would never have the chance to do so again.

It seemed an age, long enough for DeBryn’s world to shatter utterly, but could only have been a couple of seconds before Thursday spoke sharply: ‘Doctor DeBryn.’

Morse’s foot twitched at the same time. DeBryn blinked, furious with his eyes for playing tricks on him now, of all times, and Thursday spoke again. ‘DeBryn.’

At the same instant Morse’s head turned, his eyes opening, and DeBryn pressed his knuckles to his mouth as his heart gave a great leap in his chest. ‘You’re not...’ He was already moving, falling to his knees beside Morse and swiftly peeling his bloodied shirttails away. ‘I thought... the message just said fatal shooting, _two_ fatal shootings, and I–’

‘Not today he’s not,’ Thursday grunted, gripping Morse’s thigh to hold him still as DeBryn tugged Morse’s shorts down on one side, just enough to expose the entry wound. ‘Alright lad, easy does it.’

DeBryn glanced up. Morse’s eyes looked enormous in his white face, his pupils hugely dilated with pain and his freckles standing out sharply against his chalky skin.

‘Max,’ he croaked. He sounded young: young, and frightened, and DeBryn very nearly reached to touch his face, to comfort him, before remembering himself.

‘Alright, Morse, you’re going to be fine.’ DeBryn ran his hands over Morse’s hip and thigh, sliding around the back to find the exit wound and provoking a cry from Morse.

He bucked sharply, and DeBryn snapped ‘Keep him still,’ at Thursday before addressing Morse.

‘Nothing to worry about: it’s missed the bone, and a good clean shot that’s gone straight through.’ DeBryn hadn’t thought it was possible for Morse to go any whiter, but he paled and swallowed queasily. ‘I should imagine it hurts like the dickens, though. Just hold on.’ He opened a packet of gauze and pressed it to the wound, staunching the bleeding as best he could. ‘When the ambulance gets here they’ll give you morphine.’

There was no comment on this from either Thursday or Morse and DeBryn looked sharply at Thursday, all but inviting him to echo DeBryn’s reassurances. Instead Thursday avoided his gaze.

DeBryn didn’t pause, removing the sopping pad and pressing another in place, and said pointedly: ‘Inspector?’

‘There’s no ambulance coming,’ Thursday admitted at last.

‘What?’

‘I can’t go to hospital,’ Morse added, and DeBryn glanced at him to see him still white to the lips but determined.

‘Of course you’re going to hospital,’ DeBryn said, appalled, trying not to let his strength of feeling translate into unnecessary pressure on Morse’s wound. ‘You’ve been shot, and do I look as though I have a full hospital kit with me?’

‘But you could do a temporary repair,’ Morse begged. He reached out and gripped DeBryn’s wrist with cold, bloodied fingers. ‘Please, Max.’

Once again DeBryn looked at Thursday, expecting support, but found only mute appeal in his eyes. DeBryn sighed, irritated beyond measure with Morse, with Thursday, with himself for – yet again – giving in to Morse when he was set on having his way with something.

‘Fine,’ he said, watching Morse close his eyes in obvious relief. ‘Fine. But I promise you, Morse, before I’m done you’re going to wish you had opted for the ambulance, for I haven’t any pain relief with me.’

The process of cleaning and stitching was one DeBryn tried very hard to forget, afterwards. He was gentle as he could be while still doing a thorough job, gritting his teeth and ignoring Morse as he at first panted raggedly and then finally began to scream in his agony.

‘Hold him still, for God’s sake,’ DeBryn snarled at Thursday, when Morse flinched violently at the second pass of DeBryn’s needle through raw flesh, knocking the needle from DeBryn’s hand, and Thursday set his jaw and moved his hand from its comforting press on Morse’s shoulder to settle white-knuckled on his thigh.

DeBryn’s nerves were frayed almost to their limit by the time he finished. Morse had sweated through his shirt, and DeBryn sat back on his heels and rubbed a shaky hand over his face, pretending not to notice the streaks of tears on Morse’s face.

‘There.’ He watched Morse rub his shirt cuff over his face and began to fumble with his trousers. ‘That will hold.’

‘Back in a moment, lad,’ Thursday murmured, gripping Morse’s arm briefly before he rose to his feet. ‘Strange. Here – help him up.’

DeBryn looked up to see Strange hovering by the door, worry written all over a face that was almost as pale as Morse’s.

‘Alright matey.’ Strange crossed the room to crouch by Morse as Morse sat up, resting his weight awkwardly on his good hip and biting his lip almost bloody. ‘Arm around my shoulder, there we go. Now then, a step at a time.’

The pair limped out and DeBryn trailed behind helplessly, wincing at each bump to Morse’s injured side, each step that put pressure on that hip.

‘I’ve made as best a running repair as I can,’ DeBryn repeated, trying to get the notion through Morse’s skull. ‘But you really need to go to Casualty.’

Thursday stood by the gate, and it was to him that Morse seemed to direct his reply. ‘I don’t have time.’

‘Inspector...’ DeBryn looked at him, but Thursday barely spared him a glance.

‘Thank you, Doctor, I’ll take it from here.’

With that he got into the car next to Morse and the pair of them drove off, leaving DeBryn frowning after them, worry clawing at his stomach at the thought of that patched-together hip being subjected to the jolts of a car ride.

‘Don’t have time,’ DeBryn muttered to himself, glaring at the Jaguar as it reached the end of the road. ‘What a bloody ridiculous thing to say.’

Reply came from a most unexpected quarter. ‘Family business, Doctor.’

DeBryn turned to find Strange next to him. Usually he made a point of not being seen to be too friendly with any of the officers – especially Morse – but under the circumstances...

‘Oh yes?’ He looked at Strange, eyebrows raised.

Strange needed very little prompting. ‘He was up north a couple of days ago. His father was in a bad way. And then this morning he had another call. I think it’s serious.’

‘I see.’ The knowledge settled heavily into DeBryn’s mind. Abruptly the January air nipped at him, stealing away his warmth. It was far too cold a day to be standing about in shirtsleeves, and DeBryn shivered and turned back to the house. ‘Come along, constable. The dead have waited long enough.’

By now the house was crawling with police, and DeBryn wiped his hands as best he could, trying to suppress the knowledge that it was Morse’s blood that was caked into the creases of his palms and his nail beds. He focussed ruthlessly on the tasks in front of him, unwilling to dwell on the memory of Morse at his house, and the creeping certainty that what DeBryn had taken for appalling ill manners was the wild grief and rage of a man whose father was dying. A father who – DeBryn paused and rubbed the heel of his hand against his temple as suspicions settled into near-certainty – held very particular views about his gentle, cultured son’s tastes.

And DeBryn, rather than holding steady, a breakwater against which Morse could dash all his grief and fury until he had exhausted himself, had instead turned him out into the night to cope with it alone. It wasn’t a thought to be proud of.

\----------

It was a thought that stayed with him, however, and after a week he had softened sufficiently to want to seek Morse out. He could always invent a reason for doing so – that injured hip would surely need attention, if nothing else – but in truth he simply wanted to see him.

_I didn’t know,_ DeBryn wanted to tell him. _You fool, you could have told me. I would have listened. Or if you’d no wish to talk I would have let you be, in silence. But I wouldn’t have sent you away._

It had been a couple of months since his last – and only – visit to Morse’s bedsit but, after a few wrong turnings, he found his way. Someone was leaving just as DeBryn walked up the steps, and he caught the front door before it closed and slipped inside.

The stairs were as narrow and cramped as he remembered, and when he reached the first floor landing the door to Morse’s bedsit stood ajar and DeBryn frowned to himself. He approached it, and it swung open under his touch.

The place was empty. Cleared of Morse’s books and clutter it looked bigger despite its dark walls, and DeBryn walked through the silent rooms with deep unease gnawing at him.

Well, even if the chap had cleared out he wasn’t totally unreachable; presumably Thursday or Strange would know where he was. Would even have a forwarding address if DeBryn wanted to write to him, although God only knew what DeBryn would say, for he himself couldn’t even begin to imagine.

Yet as he stood there, watching the dust motes dance in a stray beam of sunlight, he couldn’t shake the impression that the whole thing had been a transient fever-dream. An adventure almost worthy of Wagner himself: where the sleeper spent the night wandering through the realms of giddy fantasy, only for it all to vanish with the dawn.

 

**End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this story has a sequel planned. Said sequel is already written but needs typed up and edited, so it won't be ready any time soon but is definitely in progress.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


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